Simon Says
by 1Styx and Stones1
Summary: The team is held captive by a psychopathic scientist on a mission to find out what makes a federal agent tick. Team-fic, maybe some Tiva. It's kind of creepy, but I think I've fallen in love with the mad scientist.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay. So apparently I have a fixation with psychology, because I'm really interested in seeing how the team reacts to the things I throw at them. I think I've harnessed my inner evilness with this villain. Simon was supposed to be creepy, but I like him too much. He morphed into this neurotic goofball loser, and I didn't have the heart to start over. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer - ...*Closes eyes, crosses fingers, and wishes really, really hard* ...ow. Now I have a migraine. **

Pier 14 was not a pretty place, that was for sure. The wood of the boardwalk was a deep brown, hinting of rot. The water lapping up against the stained concrete of the dock was a hideous shade of brown. The stench left much to be desired.

A sleek black car pulled up across the street, nondescript enough to be terribly conspicuous in this part of town. Black sedans spelled Trouble, with a capital T.

The first man to climb out of the car looked the part. He was tall and lean, wiry with muscle. He moved with the fluid grace of a greyhound, athletic despite the silver in his salt and pepper hair. There was a gun at his hip.

Another man slid out of the passenger's seat. Much younger, the man was tall and lanky, almost unhealthily skinny, with light hair and anxious eyes that lacked both the confidence and the been-there, done-that attitude of the first man. A newbie.

A woman opened the backseat door of the car. She was young and small, lacking both height and sheer bulk, though she was undeniably attractive. Olive skin and dark curls suggested she was of foreign descent. There was more than one gun secreted about her slight frame and a predatorial look in her dark eyes.

The last to exit was another man, perhaps four or five years older than the young woman. He was tall and muscular, handsome, with clear cut features and brown hair. He walked with a confident swagger, yet there was a bit of insecurity about his entire persona.

_Interesting. He'd have to look into that_.

There was one last person on the pier that night, though the others did not know it. An observer. He was there, and he was watching them with the air of a scientist taking notes on the results of an experiment, detached interest in his cold, calculating eyes. He watched the four people from his hiding place, watched and listened.

The newcomers were from a government agency and they were here to investigate an anonymous tip made over the phone, suggesting a drug deal involving a person of interest would be going down that night.

The observer couldn't help but smile at how easily they'd swallowed the bait. He'd made the call; or, at least, he'd had one of his men make the call to the agency. There was no drug deal, but something big _was_ about to go down, and these agents were going to play a key role.

He allowed himself a minute to watch the agents. They'd approached the scene cautiously, looking for their man, a suspect in the death of a petty officer. Upon the lack of movement on the pier, they'd let their guard down the slightest bit, lowered their guns. He smiled for the second time that night, a rarity in and of itself. Emotions were to be discouraged; and yet, tonight was so groundbreaking, such a momentous occasion, he allowed himself to indulge in the foolishness. If a man couldn't celebrate such a thing like this…

He waited a moment, lulling the agents further into their sense of false security. Or, at least, that was the plan.

Even the best laid plans can go awry, as it seemed. The silver-haired man was suddenly alert, tensing with his nose in the air like a bloodhound. He could sense something was wrong. The woman, seeing her leader's frown, snapped to attention, alert and taut, like a bowstring fully extended. All of a sudden her gun was back in her hand.

Cursing mentally, the observer signaled for the troops to move in. He couldn't afford to waste time and risk giving his position away. He was better than this. He was Mr. Simon, and he did not get overcome, even – no, _especially_ – at such a critical point in the game. This was everything, and there was no alternative. There was no guarantee he'd ever come across such diverting specimen again in this life-time. He'd hand-picked them from hundred, memorized their psych reports, dogged their every move for months now. There was no turning back.

The agents fought valiantly, he'd give them that. The silver-haired man heard the troops approach far before Mr. Simon had anticipated, and it took away from the team's disadvantage.

Luckily, a few second's warning was not enough to prevent anything. The team had spread out to look around, a poor strategy in any situation, really. Strength was in numbers, and numbers were not on the team's side that night. Four men silently attacked the youngest, anxious man from behind, clapping a drugged rag over his nose and mouth. He was out before he could make a sound. One down…

The foreign woman smelled the sedative from the rag, and stiffened. She whirled, gun cocked and ready, shouting a warning to her friends. Too late. Mr. Simon's men already had them surrounded.

The next down was the silver-haired man, thanks to Mr. Simon's foresight. He'd read ahead, done his research, and his sources had revealed the team's fearless leader was not one to be reckoned with. He fought valiantly, but twelve big men were far too much, even for him. Down went the agent, a rag clapped to his nose.

Remarkably, the attractive foreign woman incapacitated all four of the men who had been assigned to deal with her. Simon frowned. Impossible! True, her background suggested she was skilled in combat, but Mr. Simon had attributed success in her original agency to be thanks to her father's position of authority. An oversight, it seemed, that would have to be dealt with. Mr. Simon waved in the reinforcements.

A flood of darkly garbed men poured out of Mr. Simon's black van, tucked far back in the shadows of an alley, twenty yards down. Within minutes, the foreign woman and the handsome man were unconscious. Anxious to avoid further mishaps, Mr. Simon secured the plastic-tie bindings himself before climbing into the passenger's seat of the van next to his right-hand man, Adam O'Toole.

"Drive."'

Adam drove. In a screeching of tires and an ominous creaking of rotted wood, the van tore off, its taillights fading away into the darkness.

Simon was so happy he could have danced, though that would have been absolutely intolerable and would have lost him both the respect of his men and most likely his job as well. Instead, he chuckled deep in his throat, low and menacing, and if the effect was marred slightly by the scratchy tone of his voice – it had been a long time since he'd let loose with an evil chuckle – Adam knew better than to comment. Instead, he ventured a question.

"I take it the operative was a success, doctor?"

Mr. Simon had never gone to medical school, but his men did not need to know that. Besides, there was something very impressive about being addressed 'doctor.' It did wonders for his frown-wrinkles; Simon did a lot of frowning.

Now, however, he smiled. He'd really have to do something about all this happiness. He made a mental note to call his psychiatrist as soon as possible, only to remember he'd fired the woman last week after her first psych evaluation. He'd left in a bit of a huff. Entirely understandable, of course. It's pretty distressing to be pronounced insane repeatedly like that… But he wouldn't think about that right now. Not in his hour of triumph, not when victory was sweet on his tongue.

"It was, O'Toole. Very successful."

"Good to hear, doctor." O'Toole's voice was carefully devoid of emotion. You never knew when the boss-man was in a mood, and so you had to tread carefully if you wanted to survive even a week in this job.

"Very good to hear, O'Toole, although I don't recall asking for your opinion," Simon snapped, his mood swinging as rapidly and dangerously as a tropical storm.

"Of course not. My apologies, sir."

"Shut up. And what did I say about calling me sir?"

"Sorry, doctor."

"I told you to shut up!"

Adam wisely fell silent and returned his attention to the road in front of him. Simon reclined in his seat, relaxing for the first time since this operative had begun. Everything was going exactly as he'd planned…

**Please review! I had promised myself I wasn't going to be one of those people who begs on their knees for reviews. I write for me, and I don't really care what anyone else thinks...or at least that was the plan. I found out it's really disheartening to post your story, have over 60 hits, and only one review. So, please, tell me what you think. I don't need in-depth analysis, and you can criticize me all you want, just give me some proof that people are actually reading this, m'kay? Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay. I'm doing another chapter, because I'm bored, and because I think I'm in love with Mr. Simon. Review, pretty pretty please? **

The van pulled into the parking lot of their final destination after a few moments, an abandoned warehouse that Mr. Simon had gutted completely and remodeled with necessary equipment for the experiment.

Simon marched straight into the warehouse, leaving his men to deal with the unconscious prisoners. He and O'Toole navigated the twists and turns of the hallways easily and entered the observation room, a small, secure area located in the direct center of the warehouse. The walls were lined with computer screens, broadcasting live video feed from the cameras located in every room in the house. There was a control panel beneath the main computer screen that would make the cockpit of a fighter jet look like simple, so abundant were the buttons and flashing lights.

Simon sat down in his personal office chair, sinking into the gel-suspension cushioning, glossed over with a layer of expensive Italian leather, and scooted up to the main control panel.

"Let the show begin," he murmured, turning on several buttons and flicking one or two switches. Adam, who'd been stuck with a regular, uncomfortable office chair, wondered idly if half of those buttons even had a purpose, or if his boss had had them installed only for theatrical purposes. He wouldn't put it past him, to tell you the truth. Sometimes Adam wondered why he hadn't listened to his mother and become a cleaning lady…

Apparently at least one of the buttons had a purpose, because the image on the largest screen changed to the feed from sector A, the holding cell where the prisoners would be delivered. Sector A was a large room, twenty feet by twenty feet, made completely of white-washed concrete and filled with hidden security cameras.

Simon watched with boyish glee as the limp forms of the prisoners were unceremoniously dumped on the rough floor. The bonds were removed and Simon's men departed, but not before one particularly daring individual made a rude gesture at one of the many hidden cameras.

"Who was that?" Simon asked angrily, hurriedly zooming the camera to catch a glimpse of the rude man's face.

"That's Grant Simmons," Adam answered.

"Fire him."

"Of course, doctor," Adam lied suavely through his teeth. Simmons, for all his antics, was one of their best men. Mr. Simon would forget about it entirely by tomorrow.

Already, Grant Simmons was a vague memory, because Mr. Simon's attention had been caught by the stirring of the silver haired leader, Agent Gibbs.

Several more buttons transferred the live feed to a huge projector screen that covered the entire wall behind Mr. Simon. Swiveling in his chair, and wishing idly that he had a tub of popcorn, Mr. Simon sat back to watch. The camera's high definition lenses and remarkable zoom ability recreated the scene as effectively as if Simon and Adam had been standing in the cell with Agent Gibbs.

When Gibbs started into consciousness, he was immediately alert, a testament to his training. Muttering something under his breath, the silver-haired man jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists where the plastic ties had chafed his skin.

Leaning over, Simon pressed the button that accessed Gibbs' personal microphone, secreted on his clothing, just in time to hear the string of curses he'd let loose with at full volume. Simon cringed. He hated profanity.

Gibbs hurried over to his other agents, limp forms deposited haphazardly on the ground, to check for injuries. He lingered for a moment over the young man, Agent McGee, who had a significant nosebleed, but soon disregarded it as a mere surface wound.

Securing that his agents were safe, Gibbs began to investigate the room, skimming his fingers over the white-wash, trying the door, even scratching off some of the whitewash to determine that there was concrete underneath.

"He's smart," Simon remarked to no one in particular. "Thorough. Interesting, though, how he checked his agents over before he secured the room. He puts his people first. We can use that against him, if need be."

Adam nodded, wondering if Simon though he cared. He'd give anything for a troupe of foreign ladies and a vacuum right now…anything but a neurotic boss intent on finding out what made a federal agent tick. Seriously, this was like something out of a cheap horror film, only the villain seemed much less impressive when you knew he took his coffee with eight packets of Splenda and only wore vertically striped ties.

Gibbs let loose with another barrage of curse words, including one Simon had never heard before.

"Rather tedious," Simon sighed. "But I suppose things won't really get interesting until the others wake up, hmm?"

Adam nodded.

A moment or two later, the pretty, foreign woman woke up in a similar fashion to Gibbs; though her curses were in a language Simon did not speak nor recognize. She jack-knifed to her feet and proceeded to pace the perimeter, kicking at the walls and the reinforced steel of the door with her combat boot.

"It's no use," Gibbs told her wearily, leaning against the wall and watching Agent Ziva David kick repeatedly against the surface.

"I will be the judge of that," Agent David snapped, slightly breathless from exertion, not ceasing her temper-tantrum.

"They have not worked together long. She does not trust easily and does not believe anything will be done correctly unless she herself does it," Simon mused. "She is self-sufficient and head-strong."

Adam mentally added that Agent David was smokin' hot.

"You injured?" Gibbs asked.

David finally stopped pounding the door and doubled over, resting her hands on her knees and breathing hard. "I am fine," she told him shortly.

She has at least two broken ribs," Simon reiterated. "Again, she does not trust. She also seems to put up a defense system through her tough-guy persona. She is afraid to appear vulnerable or weak, to herself or others."

"Tony and McGee? Are they all right?" For the first time, Agent David directed her attention to her co-workers, both still, limp figures on the white-washed concrete floor.

"They're okay. McGee broke his nose, nothing else."

She nodded. "That is good."

The gangly, anxious man woke next, taking a long time to fully regain coherency. He put a hand to his nose and winced. "Ow."

"You okay, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"He's concerned," Mr. Simon said. "He's gruff, but it looks like his bark is worse than his bite. He's a teddy bear on the inside."

Looking at the cold blue eyes of the oldest man as he scanned the room for the millionth time, Adam begged to differ. This guy would make a pretty terrifying teddy bear.

Agent DiNozzo came to a moment later, sitting up blearily and rubbing his head.

"DiNozzo, you okay?" Sands asked. Agent Anthony DiNozzo nodded slowly, massaging his temples.

"I hit my head pretty hard," he admitted.

Mr. Simon turned in outrage to Adam. "I specifically ordered they be untouched. Honestly, this is insane. You break Agent McGee's nose, concuss Agent DiNozzo, and break Agent David's ribs?"

Adam knew it was pointless to argue that he, after all, had nothing to do with the incompetence of the hit team. He might get fired. Instead, he pulled his best 'lowly servant' face.

"My apologies, sir, I will have the offenders fired immediately."

Simon was satisfied by this empty promise. He returned to the monitor, where Agent Gibbs was testing Agent DiNozzo for concussion.

"You look okay," Gibbs pronounced. "Let me see you stand up."

The handsome agent got to his feet slowly and shakily. He wobbled for a moment, and his knees gave way just as Agent Ziva David hooked an arm around Anthony's waist. "Thanks," he muttered, embarrassed.

As Agent McGee joined the pretty foreigner in helping DiNozzo sit down against the wall, Mr. Simon frowned at the monitor.

"Is there something wrong, doctor?" Adam asked anxiously, scrambling for another possible reason for a temper tantrum. He was relieved when Mr. Simon shook his head slowly.

"On the contrary, O'Toole, I believe we have an interesting development."

"What would that be, doctor?" Adam asked, keeping his tone neutral and hoping that curiosity wouldn't kill the cat in this case.

It did.

"If I wanted you to know, O'Toole, I'd have told you," Mr. Simon snapped sharply. "Now shut up and do your job."

Adam wondered what hi s job was right now, exactly. He'd driven the van and issued instruction to Mr. Simon's employees, which was all that had been required of him today, but he knew better than to leave. He'd never come back if he left without Simon's express permission, and as tempting as that sounded, he had a nice apartment and a cherry red thunderbird that needed maintaining. He suffered in silence, Adam did.

"What happened out there, boss?" DiNozzo asked from where he sat, back against the wall, knees pulled up in front of him.

"You don't remember?" Agent McGee sounded horrified. "How hard did you hit your head, Tony?"

"Of course I can remember, McWorry-Wart" Agent DiNozzo said impatiently. "I mean, who ambushed us? And why?"

"We were set up," Gibbs answered grimly. "That tip-off was a fraud. I don't know who ambushed us, but he's got something big planned."

"How can you tell that?"

Agent David, who until now had been pacing the room like a wild animal, answered. "We are in a large building, most likely a warehouse, and there are security cameras all over this room. They took our weapons, but left us alive."

"Which means they have a specific plan," Gibbs finished.

"What do you think they want?" Agent Timothy McGee looked anxious.

"They might use us as hostages," Gibbs answered.

"Then why the cameras everywhere? Why are they watching us so closely?" Tim looked curiously at one of several small cameras clinging to the wall in the corners of the room.

"Our luck, they're probably a bunch of crazy people who're going to interrogate us for kicks," Agent DiNozzo said pessimistically, tilting his head back against the wall.

Mr. Simon bristled. His sanity was a sensitive topic, and he did not appreciate complete strangers judging him so hastily. Really, it was quite hurtful and not entirely wise, given that he had the power to kill the judgmental agent where he stood. He would do it, if not for that interesting moment that had passed. Such interesting developments could not be terminated so quickly. The scientist side of him was too intrigued.

The human side of him, however, the side that his psychologist(s) had pronounced insane, was not quite so easily mollified. He wanted vengeance, and vengeance could be easily obtained.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm back! Sorry for the absence, I was on vacation in the fabulous state of Florida! It was great, and I have returned, sunburned and brimming with ideas! A brief stay in Disney got me thinking...NCIS meets Disney World...that would make for an interesting case, now, wouldn't it? Let me know if you like the idea. **

**Disclaimer: All I own is Mr. Simon. And I can't really complain...**

"I think it's time for our first experiment."

Adam couldn't help but shudder at the demonic smile that spread across Mr. Simon's ghostly features. It was pretty scary, even for someone who knew all about Mr. Simon's tendency to carry perfumed hand sanitizers around in his pocket. It was so scary he even pitied the government agents a little, especially the hot foreigner. But he had a job to do and a down payment on his Thunderbird coming up, so he didn't argue.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Simon flicked several switches with an overly theatrical flourish. A second later all the lights shut off in sector A, leaving the four occupants in total darkness.

The camera switched automatically into night-vision settings, giving Mr. Simon and Adam a perfect view of Agents Gibbs, McGee, DiNozzo, and David.

Agent DiNozzo was still sitting with his back against the wall, though his head came up when the lights went off.

Agent McGee looked terrified, hand flying for his empty holster. He stood, wide eyes riveted on the metal door like he expected the boogey man to burst through.

Agent David immediately tried the door again, and then, finding it still locked, resumed her former role, pacing the room.

"Everyone okay?" Agent Gibbs' voice floated through the darkness calmly.

"Yes."

"I am alright."

"Romantic atmosphere. Nice," Tony DiNozzo commented sarcastically. "All we need is a violinist and some Italian food and we'd have ourselves a party."

"He uses humor as a defense mechanism," Simon noticed. "He's all swagger and no real confidence. Very insecure."

"Most enlightening, sir."

"Shut up, O'Toole." Simon frowned. "Why are you still here anyway? Prepare the rooms, and tell the men to escort our agents to interrogation. I'll start with Agent DiNozzo. He looks like a talker, perhaps we can, oh, encourage him in such a manner. I'll meet you down there in a moment."

Adam knew better than to protest, even though he knew for a fact that the interrogation rooms had been ready for weeks now, and that Mr. Simon could have easily issued the orders to the men over the radio. For the sake of brushed Italian leather and a cherry red paint job, he did as he was told.

Mr. Simon navigated the maze of corridors to sector B, the interrogation sector, and entered his small observation room there, where he could watch the events unfolding in each of the interrogation cells from the live video feed. Sector B was a narrow hallway, lined with doors that opened into tiny rooms that were slightly larger than a janitor's closet. Each room was made entirely out of mirrors. A single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, its sparse light reflecting back and forth like an optical illusion.

Mr. Simon somewhat regretted his decision to install the mirrors in his interrogation rooms. While they were certainly dramatic and unnerving, the strange reflections of reflections always gave him a headache. He often found himself staring at his own reflected image, each a bit smaller than the next, in the shiny glass. It gave him a headache.

Now, however, he was rather pleased with its effect on his guests. Each agent had been deposited in a separate room and handcuffed to the dreadfully uncomfortable chairs that Simon had picked out for just this purpose. He had trawled the office supply store for hours, seeking out the hardest, most uncomfortable office chair he could find. It was a plastic monstrosity of a chair on wheels, with the thinnest of cushions on the seat covered in itchy fake wool. An interior decorator's worst nightmare, and Mr. Simon's dream come true.

Slowly, the agents came to, blinking blearily at their abstract surroundings. Mr. Simon smiled. This was dreadfully exciting.

"O'Toole."

There was no answer, of course, because O'Toole was hiding out in the break room, guzzling his addiction, an intolerably sugary fruit drink with enough caffeine to send a water buffalo into shock. Mr. Simon had strictly forbidden the horrendous beverage after an unfortunate incident involving his favorite lab coat. Adam always tended to be clumsy when totally wired on caffeine, as the cherry red stain on Simon's coat lapel would attest to.

Sighing, Mr. Simon looked around. Honestly, you paid these people massive amounts of cash for what? To disappear the second you needed someone to listen, preferably with some degree of awe, to your brilliant plans to delve deep into the psychological depths of a federal agent's mind? Mr. Simon's irritation was softened slightly as he re-ran that sentence in his head.

_Delving deep into the psychological depths of a federal agent's mind. Now, that's not bad. It would sound good in italics, underneath a big, bold title. Something like __**Simon Says**_. _Yeah, that's pretty good. Would look nice right below a gushing review from _Medical Weekly. _Hmm…note to self. _

"O'Toole," Mr. Simon repeated, having entirely forgotten his assistant was on a caffeine-induced hiatus. When, again, there was no answer, he sighed and turned around to survey the room. It was empty, except for one or two technicians monitoring the surveillance, and Grant Simmons, a hitman who was taking the brief lull in action as an opportunity to flirt with Emily Schneider, a pretty technician.

"Simmons," Simon said, motioning the young man over. He frowned slightly, wondering why Simmons' name was at the top of his mind. Did he need to reprimand the man? Not as far as he could remember. His déjà vu musings were interrupted by a vile string of language from one conscious Agent Gibbs.

"Sir," Simmons said, jogging over. He turned to make a 'call me' sign to Emily, then returned his attention to his boss.

"Where is O'Toole?"

Simmons shrugged. "Don't know, sir."

Mr. Simon sighed. Help was so incompetent these days. Just this morning, for example, he'd requested his normal XXL iced coffee with a liberal dosing of light cream, eight packets of Splenda, and a dollop of whipped cream on top, only to have the barista snap her gum in his face and tell him to 'like, hold on. I'm trying to talk on the phone here.'

"Sir?"

Mr. Simon snapped out of his indignant mental rant about the obnoxious attributes of teenaged female baristas. "Oh, yes. Well, as O'Toole has gone fishing, you will have to do, Simmons. Here's what you do. You sit there."

Mr. Simon motioned to the least comfortable of the chairs in the room. He had a sneaking suspicion Grant Simmons had done something offensive earlier today. Even if he couldn't remember the offense, he could certainly exact his revenge. "And now, you listen to everything I say. Don't talk. Don't comment. Don't, on any circumstances, chew gum. Just listen. And, please, save your awe until I am done speaking, alright?"

"Yessir." Grant said with an incredulous eye roll for Emily's benefit. _Can you believe this guy_? Emily giggled.

"Good man. Now, see, here is the plan. I watched this team for months, Simmons. Did you know that?"

"Yes, sir. Months."

"Do you have any idea what it was like, to sit there and watch these people, day in and day out? Learning their habits, their quirks? Their daily routines?"

"Yes, sir," Simmons replied dutifully, if incorrectly.

"No, you don't," Mr. Simon snapped. "You don't have any idea what it was like to watch these people. These people are insane, Simmons. They are nut-jobs. That woman, for example, Ziva David?"

"The hot one?" Simmons asked, thinking that these federal agents were not the only nut-jobs he knew.

Mr. Simon frowned. "She is a specimen. It is her mind I am interested in, not her appearance. And didn't I tell you not to talk?" He continued as if nothing had happened. "That woman runs four and a half miles every morning at five AM. I was up at five every single morning to watch her."

Grant Simmons wasn't surprised. He'd worked with Mr. Simon long enough to know that his boss was off the deep end. Maniacal qualities were only to be expected, video-taped, and played at parties for a laugh in days to come.

"But that is not my point, Simmons. My point is that I know these people like the back of my hand. Better, actually, because I am not well acquainted with the back of my hand. I often wear gloves, you see, to prevent contamination, so my hand is not often exposed and therefore not suitable for scrutinizing or memorizing of any kind. I know them better than the back of my hand, because I studied them dedicatedly. I never ceased to study them. They intrigued me for many reasons, but do you know why I was first drawn to them, Simmons?"

As Grant seemed to recall, Mr. Simon had set up an elaborate plot, buying fifteen acres of woodland and an old campgrounds in order to host a team-bonding experience, mandatory for federal agents across America. It had taken a whole lot of video cameras and a great deal of bug spray, but over two hundred teams had attended. Mr. Simon had replayed the tapes of their trust exercises for months before finally selecting the NCIS MCRT. Simmons registered that Simon had, mercifully, stopped talking, then realized the neurotic man was staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Why, sir?"

Mr. Simon smiled and stroked the monitor of one of the many computers lovingly. "Their loyalty. They were like a family, protecting each other. Their trust was incredible. It was so strong, and yet terribly fragile. The family, it's been ripped apart. There's been betrayal and death and pain, but they still trusted each other in some twisted way. It was so intriguing. I couldn't wait to get my hands on it. To rip it apart."

That seemed a bit contradictory. He'd been drawn to the team's loyalty, and now that was what he wanted to destroy? Mad scientists in movies made way more sense than this guy.

"Do you know how I'm going to do that, Simmons? Do you want to know how I am going to tear that fragile trust?"

Simmons looked around hopefully for a chain saw. When no power tools made an appearance, he sighed. "How, sir?"

"I'm going to plant the seeds of doubt. Just going to say enough to make them start to look at each other sideways, to get them thinking, 'what if they're not really on our side?' And when their trust is gone, they will be weak. And I will break them all."

**This is more of just a filler chapter. The next one should be good, though. DiNozzo meets Simon. The smart-alec and the neurotic loser...let the games begin! Review, please. Let me know if you have any ideas for where this should go or about the Disney World fic. Thanks**


	4. Chapter 4

**Yes, I'm doing another! I'm crazy, but I got really excited about the interrogation scene, and I couldn't resist! Maybe I should be doing longer chapters... oh well. Please review and let me know what you think should happen next. Sorry if this chapter is mucho freaky. My mind kinda works backwards, and Mr. Simon is SO uncooperative. First I wanted him to be scary and he turned into a loser. But then when I try to write a funny scene with Simon at his loserish best, it turns dark and angsty on me. Oh well. And sorry for all the Ziva psychology. She really intrigues me. I couldn't resist. I have impulse control issues. :-) **

**Disclaimer - You know that thing at the end of the episode, where it plays the music and it shows the sand blowing off the plaque? You know how it doesn't say my name on the plaque?...well there you go. **

It was pretty safe to say that Anthony DiNozzo was _not _having a good day. He'd spilled his coffee, argued with Ziva, and - oh yeah - been captured by a bunch of psychos. A real banner day if he'd ever seen one…

Tony frowned. For that matter, was it even the same day? He had no sense of time right now. The psychos must have broken his inner clock when they practically beat his brains out.

Alright, so he probably wasn't even concussed, but a man was entitled to a little exaggeration every now and then, wasn't he? After all, it wasn't every day you woke up in a big concrete box filled with cameras, though the experience was far from the novelty it should have been. Things are pretty bad when waking up with no idea where you are or how you got there turns into a weekly event. Makes you question the meaning of an 'occupational hazard.'

He took a minute to study the room appreciatively. The mirrored walls and single light bulb were far from original, but they were certainly unnerving… Did his hair really look like that from the back?

He was still doing his best to smooth his 'porcu-pig' of a hair-do when the door, cleverly disguised as yet another mirror, swung open.

"Good evening, Agent DiNozzo," Mr. Simon said in his best evil villain voice. Of course, he was neither evil nor villainous, just a man performing an experiment in the name of science, but there was something satisfying in cold, hard intimidation. It made him happy. It made him feel powerful.

Tony grinned. Aha. So that answered one question. It was the evening.

But that meant he and the others had been out for nearly 24 hours! Which would certainly account for the…shall we say, _bedraggled_…state of his hair. But 24 hours! What kind of drugs had they been administered?

His captor was a ghostly kinda guy with fingers like spiders and skin like McGee's. This dude obviously didn't get out much. Maybe if he had, Tony wouldn't be here right now. Tony was a subscriber to the popular thesis that there was nothing a good night of clubbing wouldn't heal. Aromatherapy had nothing on tequila shots.

As Caspar the Geeky Ghost in a Lab Coat, as Tony decided he should henceforth be known, took a seat across the cheepy plastic table, Tony snuck a glance at the man's watch. It was one in the morning. Which kinda put a damper on the whole 'creepy man walks in, says 'Good Evening. I've been expecting you' schpeal. Why was it that fictional villains were always so much more intimidating than the real deal guys?

"And then you wonder why I like movies better than real life," he chuckled, shaking his head, then wincing. Alright, so maybe real life heroes weren't quite as sharp as the fictional kind. _Note to self - don't shake head when possibly concussed. _

"You will be silent unless spoken to," Mr. Simon informed the agent, irritated by the man's chuckles that he did not understand. Honestly, was Simon the only person in the world who had never been a part of an inside joke?

"You did speak to me," Tony pointed out coolly. "I was just responding. It's polite. You know what would also be polite? If you took these handcuffs off me and told me why the hell I'm here."

"Now, now, now," Mr. Simon reprimanded. "Let's refrain from profanity here."

Tony laughed. "You want profanity?"

What followed was such a string of profanity that Mr. Simon actually blushed, his snow-white skin taking on a pinkish hue. Now this was just embarrassing. Just a moment ago he'd walked in here on the top of the world, with an intimidating opening line and all the power in the world. And now he was covering his ears as his bruised captive cursed him out so creatively that Simon couldn't even understand the insults as this point.

When the swearing turned bilingual - was that Spanish? - Mr. Simon decided he'd finally had enough. It was bad enough that he couldn't understand half the vulgarity Agent DiNozzo had heaped upon him, but now to be subjected to further abuse in a language he did not speak? This wasn't how the interrogation was supposed to go!

"I suggest," Mr. Simon said, steely cold, "that you cooperate, Agent DiNozzo. You are in my power. I can do anything I like to you or your friends. Anything. I can kill you right here where you stand and it will be justified. Understand?"

"Technically, I'm not standing, I'm sitting," Agent DiNozzo pointed out.

Mr. Simon sighed, wishing fervently for some test tubes or a cage of white rats. Everything was so much easier when your specimen couldn't talk. "Irrelevant. Do you understand?"

"Hold on. I need some time to think of a snappy response. Can you talk in longer sentences? I need a minute."

"You think you are funny, Agent DiNozzo?"

Tony's grin, if anything, grew. "Well, yeah."

"I see through you."

Tony looked down at himself, pretending to ensure he was not truly transparent. "Really? Okay then, Superman, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"You are not amusing."

"No, you're right," Tony agreed ruefully. "I'm better than this usually. It's the handcuffs; they're really cramping my style. And the mirrors. Kudos for creepy interrogation room, by the way. Best I've seen in a while. Yeah, the mirror's are definitely throwing me off. I'm a handsome guy, but it's no fun to stare at _your _reflection, everywhere I turn. It's burning my eyes."

Simon frowned. He didn't have to put up with this! He had thought he'd left the juvenile cracks about his appearance behind him when he'd graduated from middle school to the asylum. Was there no escape from the idiots? You finally get the break of your life, only to have an overgrown class clown make you look like a fool?

Sighing, he pressed on. There was nothing else he could do. Best to just get to the point and get out of here.

"You use humor as a tension diffuser. You crack jokes to hide how you really feel. You act like a class clown, like a juvenile, in order to hide who you really are. You hide yourself by calling attention to yourself. I see through you, Anthony DiNozzo. I know your secrets, your insecurities."

Tony looked visibly shaken, though he bravely continued to smirk. "Just answer the question, Doctor Phil. How many fingers?"

Simon looked at him quietly for a minute in cold amusement. "Three."

The grin slipped momentarily and Simon allowed himself a smile of his own, knowing that both of his guesses had been correct.

Finally, the handsome agent dropped the act, leaning forward in his chair so that Simon could see how unfocused Agent DiNozzo's pupils were. "What do you want?"

"I? I want nothing," Mr. Simon assured Tony. "I am not doing this for myself. It's nothing personal, really. I am merely a detached observer of a revolutionary experiment."

"We're an experiment?"

"An experiment in psychology, in endurance, in willpower. It's pure genius, and it's going to change the world."

Michael looked into the face of his captor and he shivered, because the eyes that looked back at him glowed with a manic light. "And we're the specimen?"

"Yes. Hand-picked from thousands."

"Why us? My looks? McGee's nerdiness? Gibbs' remarkable ability to piss off anybody and everybody within a five mile radius? Ziva's, well, Ziva-ness?"

Mr. Simon saw his opening, and took it. "No, no, and no. But your lovely Agent David did play a part in this scheme of things. Do you know, Agent DiNozzo, of a man named Ari Haswari?"

Tony's face darkened slightly, and a far-away look clouded his eyes.

"I had thought so," Mr. Simon said smoothly, sitting back down in the driver's seat of this conversation. He was in charge now. The games were over. "Did you know that Mr. Haswari had ambitions to be a doctor? To create, not to destroy?"

"Yeah?" the snort Agent DiNozzo gave positively ached of bitterness. "A good job he did of that."

"And do you know, Agent DiNozzo," Mr. Simon continued, "do you know that Ari Haswari - who wanted more than anything to create, to help, to build - became a killer? Do you know what the blunt cruelty, the pain he inflicted, the pain he bore, the death, the madness, the obliviation, the _destruction. _Do you know what that did to him, to Ari, who wanted to give life, not take it? Do you know what it did? It drove him mad. Because Ari wasn't made for the harsh life that he was born into. It destroyed him, and he, in turn, destroyed others. I believe you can attest to that."

There was such pain in the eyes of the man sitting across the table from Mr. Simon that he could almost taste it in the air. And it made him want to laugh.

"And do you know what happened to Ari? To Ari, who wanted to be a doctor?"

"He died," Agent DiNozzo said hoarsely. Beneath the table, his hands were clenched together. His body language was taut and angry and pained and, oh, the fear! Mr. Simon fed on the fear like a frenzied shark feeds on a wounded porpoise. And like the shark, it nourished him. It made him want more.

"Yes, he died," Simon whispered, leaning forward so that the handsome agent in front of him could see the truth in his eyes. "They put a bullet in him, and he died. But Ari Haswari was dead long before Ziva David gunned him down. He died the day he made his first kill."

"What are you- Ziva didn't - Gibbs. _Gibbs_ killed Ari," Tony sputtered.

"Mmm. Is that what she told you? Anyhow, Ari died long ago. And he was replaced by a monster that your partner exterminated. It was a mercy, really, but she didn't see it as that. She saw it as an act of duty. A job. So she did her job. She's rather good at that, isn't she? At doing her job?"

Agent DiNozzo did not answer, just stared at Mr. Simon blankly, a collage of bewilderment and fear and pain glued to his face. Mr. Simon sighed.

"I asked you a question, Agent DiNozzo, therefore you have my permission to speak. Not that you seem to care about such pleasantries."

"Pleasantries!" Tony exploded. "Pleasantries! Here I am, handcuffed to a chair, listening to you tell a bunch of lies about _my partner_ and her monster of a brother who killed one of my best friends, and you're lecturing me on _pleasantries_?" He spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue. "Are you _insane_?"

Mr. Simon grimaced. Again with the questioning of his sanity. Would the criticism never end? "I am merely trying to make a point, Agent DiNozzo. Your partner, you and she are rather close, aren't you, as partners go? You are, dare I say, friends?"

There was no answer. Agent DiNozzo seemed to have spent all remaining effort on his offensive, yet highly amusing outburst.

"And yet," Mr. Simon continued, getting up and pacing the room in a way that proved most effective for Agent Gibbs over the years. "And yet your partner, your friend, didn't tell that it was she, not your mentor, who killed the monster that once was Ari Haswari? How…odd."

"Look, I don't know what the hell you're talking about-"

"Profanity filter, please, Agent!"

"Gibbs is the one who killed Ari," Tony said stubbornly, doing his best to cross his arms, a futile task when wearing handcuffs. "And I don't know what you've got against Ziva-"

"Oh, it's nothing personal," Mr. Simon was quick to assure the handsome younger agent. "She is merely an intriguing specimen. For example, did you know Miss David had not one, but two siblings?"

"Agent David."

"Oh, yes. How silly of me. _Agent _David had a sister. You know that, I presume?"

"Where are you getting this information from?"

"I have my sources, Agent DiNozzo," Mr. Simon said crisply. "And I'll thank you not to interrupt whilst I am speaking. Thali David was sixteen when she died. Let me see, that would put our Miss David at about nineteen or so when her sister was blown to bits by a roadside bomb. Of course, you never knew Tali, and I am most certain Miss David never speaks of her sister. Shall I enlighten you?"

Tony's eyes were guarded, his body language suggesting he was on edge, but he did not answer, only made another valiant effort to cross his handcuffed arms.

"Tali David was much like her half-brother as a child. She was innocent. She was sweet. She was naïve. Miss David did her best to shelter her younger sister from the world that was destroying her brother. The world that our Miss David embraced. The world that killed Tali.

"You know, I presume, that your partner spent the next fourteen months hunting down the people behind the bombing? You know that, at eighteen, she heartlessly slaughtered over fifteen men? Tali David was all that was good and innocent. She had not yet been exposed to the dark world that was driving Ari mad. The world that was Ziva's life."

"I don't see what this has to do with-"

"Three David children. One is blown to bits, an innocent bystander. One is gunned down by their own sister. And there was one."

"This sounds like something out of that Agatha Christie-"

"Save the references, please, Agent DiNozzo. I know you are paying attention, whether or not you choose to appear so. And so here is what remains. Ziva David, the sole survivor of the clan. Do you know why your partner survived, Tony? Do you know why she is still here?"

"Because she got out," Agent DiNozzo spit angrily. "She got out while she still could."

"Ah, yes, I heard about the team's little…excursion out to Somalia," Mr. Simon smiled. That would be some good material to use on the lovely Miss David. "Rescued her, didn't you? From that Saleem Ulman man."

"From her father."

"Oh, yes, I heard about that. Family spats are always dreadfully uncomfortable, aren't they? Terribly awkward. I will leave you now, Agent DiNozzo-"

"Alleluia."

"But I have one last thing to say to you," Mr. Simon continued, raising his voice slightly to warn against further interruptions. "When Ziva David went to Somalia, she knew what she was getting into, didn't she? Her father knew it was a suicide mission, but Agent David is fairly intelligent, isn't she? Surely she-"

"Shut up," the man's voice is shaking with sudden anger. A sensitive subject. Goody, what fun!

"There were three David children once upon a time. Now there's only one. The sole survivor, who has outlived both the doctor and the free spirit. Do you know why? Would you care to venture a guess?"

"You sick-" the profanity that follows nearly makes Mr. Simon lose his train of thought. Nearly. But his point is so good, and he's practiced this speech so many times that there's little chance of forgetting it.

"Ziva David survived because she adapted. Ari Haswari fought the violent world he was born into. The inner struggle drove him mad, created a monster. Tali David never knew the world of violence until the moment of her death. And by then it was too late. But Ziva, Ziva embraced it. Ziva took it all in and grew in it. She looked violence in the face and made friends with it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Tony's voice was remarkably flat. He'd finally got himself under control. "Why are you telling me all this crap?"

"I'm warning you, Agent DiNozzo, to be careful about who you trust," Mr. Simon said simply, getting to his feet. "Thank you, Agent DiNozzo, for your time."

"Sure, anytime." Tony's voice was as hollow as his eyes.

"You should tell Agent Gibbs that you are most likely concussed."

"I appreciate the concern."

"Oh, and your lovely Agent David should really calm down. All that pacing can't be good for her ribs."

Tony frowned. "What about Ziva's ribs?"

Mr. Simon feigned innocence. "Oh, didn't she tell you? She's got at least two broken ribs. I'm surprised. I thought you two were fairly close as teammates go. Doesn't she trust you?"

The younger man's face darkened, and Mr. Simon did his best not to laugh.

"Of course she- I mean. I thought we were done with the questions?"

"Yes, I suppose we are," Mr. Simon sighed. "Enjoy your stay, Agent DiNozzo You'll be here for quite a while." With that, feeling very evil and villainous, he swept out of the room, wishing he had a black cloak to swirl about mysteriously as he exited.

**Review! Also - I've been floating around the idea of a case fic. taking place in the land of the mouse. I just got back from Disney World and I'm on a bit of a Disney spree. What do you think? Yes? No? Let me know...look at me, rhyming right and left like that! **


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm kinda discouraged by the lack of reviews for the last chapter. I really liked it, and now I'm second-guessing myself about it. A couple of reviews on this chapter might cheer me up (hint, hint) Again, this is sort of a filler, because I'm working on a new story, called Mouse Trap. It's about a serial killer in Disney World. I'm way too excited about it. So, yeah, enjoy, review. **

**Disclaimer: hmmph. **

"Simmons!"

With a sigh, Grant Simmons turned to his employer as he strode into the Sector B observation room. "Sir?"

"I presume you watched the interview?" Mr. Simon waited expectantly for the praise that he was sure was to come. Simmons shifted slightly. He'd been rather preoccupied by the pretty blond sound technician, to tell you the truth.

"Of course, sir. It was most intriguing," Simmons lied blank-facedly, taking a page out of Adam O'Toole's book.

Mr. Simon dropped into his chair, beaming, and pulled up the security footage from Agent DiNozzo's interrogation cell. He was more than a little pleased to find the handsome agent was far less cocky now. The man sat quietly, resting his head on his handcuffed hands, staring down at the table. A smile was certainly in order, so Mr. Simon allowed his lips to stretch about a quarter inch before they snapped back into their normal frown.

"Do you understand what I did in there, Simmons? Do you realize that I tackled a man who is reputed in federal agencies throughout the world for his intolerably juvenile behavior? And I broke him, a task that has never been done before."

"Astounding." Even someone as entirely oblivious as Mr. Simon couldn't miss the degree of sarcasm with which Grant related his response. But he was too high on his victory to do more than frown disapprovingly, before continuing with his lecture.

"Do you know how I got to him, Simmons? I watched him for months, and I know everything about him, down to what kind of dish soap he uses and how often he does his laundry."

Okay, now that was slightly creepy. Simmons wondered if there was surveillance in his apartment as well…he wouldn't put it past Mr. Simon. Grant made a mental note to start doing his laundry a little more frequently, just in case.

"I know that he and Agent David - yes, the hot one, as you so crudely put it - have a terribly fragile relationship. They are best friends, soul mates, if you'll excuse the whimsical term, but trust has always been a bit of an issue. Agent DiNozzo killed Ziva David's boyfriend and long-time partner, did you know that? And she didn't trust him enough to believe that the death was in self-defense. She returned to Mossad, and was sent on a suicide mission by her father. She was rescued by her former team, in the end, but the fact remains that neither will ever be entirely over it. You noticed her frantic pacing before?"

Um…no. Grant nodded solemnly.

"She's flashing back to her days in captivity. Very intriguing, wouldn't you agree?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"And now," Mr. Simon chuckled, "she has just lost her closest ally, due to a few choice tidbits that I mentioned to Agent DiNozzo. I mentioned a few things she lied about, and educated him briefly on Ziva David's less-than-stable state of mind. And that's all it takes. He will do the rest. Their trust was already fragile, and I just dealt a few fatal blows. It's only a matter of time until it all crashes down. And then they will be weak."

This was sounding remarkably similar to the speech Simon had delivered right before entering the interrogation room. Grant leaned against the wall and tried to pretend he was listening, let alone actually interested.

"Let me see…" Mr. Simon mused. "I believe I will talk to Agent McGee next, Mr. Simmons. Agent McGee has relatively stable relationships with all his co-workers, though he does have a cute little school-boy's crush on the forensic analyst, Abigail Sciuto. Unfortunately, I could not figure out how to get both the scientist and the team in the same place at the same time for an abduction. We will have to be happy with what we got."

"Yessir."

"Anyhow…Timothy McGee's one weakness is his own self-esteem. He's nervous. He is unsure in his own abilities. He is, in essence, what Neanderthals like yourself, Mr. Simmons, would call a geek."

Grant bowed slightly. It was true. The agent in the second observation room looked like one of those guys he'd stuffed into lockers back in high school, before he got transferred into juvi.

"And so we will prey on his own insecurity. We are destroying trust here, Mr. Simmons, but trust does not necessarily have to be shared between two people. For example, if you go to one of those vile shooting ranges and aim at a target, you have to trust in your own aim, don't you? You have to trust that you are not pointing the gun backwards. You have to trust that you know what you are doing."

Grant thought that there was only one person in this room right now who couldn't be trusted to hold the gun in the correct direction. And Mr. Simon was not one to set foot in a shooting range in the first place.

"If we can obliterate Agent McGee's self-trust, we essentially obliterate _him_. He will be useless, because he will never again be able to do anything without first questioning himself. Doubt is an interesting quality, Mr. Simmons. Doubt leads to hesitation, and hesitation, in high tension circumstances, often leads to death. Thus, if we destroy our young friend's confidence, we destroy him. Do you follow?"

To tell you the truth, Simmons had not been paying the slightest bit of attention for a good two minutes now, but a nod seemed in order, so he inclined his head once and went back to mouthing flirtatious comments at Emily Schneider.

In any event, Mr. Simon was satisfied. He stood up, sending his office chair flying with a less-than-graceful crash. He winced. That was not entirely the dramatic effect he was going for. Perhaps a long, black cloak was not such a good idea. His luck, he'd probably trip on it. Worse yet, O'Toole would no doubt spill that sugary, caffeinated substance he so adored on it.

Hmm. Were capes dry-cleanable?

Speaking of which…where was O'Toole?

"Simmons!"

Grant snapped to attention. "Sir?"

"Where is O'Toole?"

Last Grant had seen, Adam O'Toole had been hiding in the break room, chugging something that smelled fruity out of a giant red tumbler for all he was worth. He debated telling Simon this, only to remember that Adam _had _saved his neck earlier today. "Don't know, sir."

"Well, find him!" Simon snapped. "What kind of answer is 'don't know' anyway? It's not even a complete sentence! It's a sentence fragment! You should at least have the decency to address me in full sentences, Simmons! 'Don't know!' Honesty!"

Grant turned and high-tailed it out of the room, slightly injured by the idiotic voice Mr. Simon was using to imitate him. Did he really sound like that?

Having met his 'Rant About Grammar' quota for the day, Simon settled down, trying to remember what he'd been talking about before Simmons' lapse into sentence fragments had sent him into a frenzy.

Oh yes. He'd been about to go and shred someone's self-confidence into shreds.

**Yay! More angsty psychological dissection to come! I enjoy mentally torturing these people way too much! Review, please? Gracias! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I love this chapter. Like, I LOVE this chapter. I know kind of portrayed McGee as a wimp earlier in the story, so this is to make up for that. Is he a little too obnoxious? I wasn't sure. Anyway, I just want to thank everyone who reviewed. Hearing what you think makes me so happy that it's sad. Someone pointed out that in the fourth chapter I called Tony 'Michael' once or twice. Flub on my part, sorry. I'm writing an original story with a character named Michael, and I guess I got confused. I'm a bit all over the place. Someone also voiced concerns that I would abandon this story in favor of the Disney World story. No worries. I can multi-task. Anyway, enjoy and review, please. Review motivate me.**

**Disclaimer: yada yada yada  
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Mr. Simon was in the process of striding out of the control majestically, the Star Wars music that always accompanied Darth Vader playing at full volume in his head. _Dun dun dun dun da dun d-_

The menacing music came to an abrupt halt as Mr. Simon was bowled over by one Adam O'Toole.

"Sir! Sir, my apologies, sir!" Adam said frantically, speaking slightly faster than normal due to the large quantity of caffeine now bubbling in his system.

"Shut up, O'Toole," Mr. Simon said crankily, shaking off his jittery assistant and scrambling to his feet before his dignity could be further compromised. "Where have you been?"

"Preparing the interrogation rooms and issuing orders to the men," Adam replied promptly, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of his feet.

Mr. Simon eyed the red stain on Adam's upper lip. "Have you been drinking that nasty substance again, O'Toole?"

Adam bowed his head. "Sir, it's nearly two in the morning and I haven't slept in over twenty four hours. I needed a pick-me-up."

"What have I said about calling me sir?"

"Sorry, doctor," Adam muttered, scrubbing furiously at his lip with the back of his hand.

"If you need a pick-me-up, O'Toole, I recommend a latte. Not that nasty Sham-Wow stuff you insist on guzzling. Honestly, that drink is made of nothing but sugar and caffeine."

"It's not Sham-Wow, sir, it's-"

"_Doctor_!"

"Yessir, doctor, sir." Adam closed his eyes momentarily and tried to get his jittery brain under control. He needed to get out of here before he did anything else stupid and potentially fatal to his career. "What is the plan of action, doctor?"

"It's too late," Mr. Simon said smugly. "I've already dictated my plan of action to Simmons. He was much more appreciative than you have ever been." Mr. Simon frowned. "Where is that man anyway?"

Grant had stopped by the break room to inform Adam that Mr. Simon wanted him. He'd then asked, oddly, if Adam knew where he could find a tape recorder. Adam had shrugged and said no. Grant had started out of the room, only to turn back and ask awkwardly if Adam thought his voice sounded…strange?

"Don't know, doctor."

"Shame. He was a much better listener than you, O'Toole. Anyhow. You may sit here and watch as I interrogate Agent McGee. Unfortunately, you have missed my pre-interrogation run-down, so you'll just have to follow along as best as your caffeine-wired brain can."

"That's-" Adam cleared his throat and tried not to sound to happy. "That's a shame, sir. I mean, _doctor_."

"It's your own fault, O'Toole," Mr. Simon said crisply. "Now if you'll excuse me."

This time, Mr. Simon looked both ways before striding out the door and into Agent McGee's interrogation room. _Dun dun dun dun da dun dun da dun…_

"Good evening, Agent McGee," Mr. Simon said coolly, swinging open the interrogation room door and sitting down across the table from the young agent.

Agent McGee looked down at his watch, then up at Mr. Simon. "You don't say."

Dang it. Apparently this one wasn't as gullible as Agent DiNozzo. _Note to self - if you wish to preserve dignity, remove wrist watches along with guns and cell phones while you still have the chance. _

"Now here is the-"

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

Mr. Simon looked at Tim McGee in surprise, slightly miffed that he had been interrupted. And he'd thought McGee to be the quiet, polite kind, the kind who liked computers and got shoved into lockers in high school. A kindred spirit, if you will. It was rather…crushing…to find even his own kind had deserted him in favor of sarcasm and swagger.

Tim shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed at his own boldness. "I mean, if you were following proper evil villain procedure, you'd follow up your 'good evening' with a 'do you know why you're here.' Right?"

_What? What proper evil villain procedure? They have rules for criminal activity now? What has the world come to, when even lawlessness has procedure to be followed?_

Mr. Simon cleared his throat and tried not to let his moment of inner turmoil surface. "Ah, but you see, I am not an evil villain."

This one seemed to have Agent McGee stumped. He looked flatly at Simon for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. "That was your cue to tell me who you are and what you want. Look, I'm trying to be helpful here."

It was really most disconcerting when even the wimpy computer geek could get the best of you in verbal combat.

"My name is not important," Mr. Simon said finally. "And I would appreciate it if you did not continue your snide commentary, Agent McGee."

"You said you weren't a villain?" McGee questioned, ignoring the subtle reprimand.

"No, I am not a villain," Mr. Simon agreed, thankful for the prompt. "I am merely an individual who is interested in science."

"And this science involves abducting federal agents and locking them in big white boxes?"

"Exactly!" Mr. Simon was quite pleased by Agent McGee's perceptiveness. He was a much better listener than O'Toole or Simmons. Perhaps after the experiment was over, he would keep the man on as a kind of pet geek, who would listen sympathetically as Mr. Simon related his newest scheme.

"And that makes sense in your mind?"

Alright, so there were a few quirks that would have to be ironed out, such as the sarcastic comments. Agent DiNozzo was a bad influence, it seemed.

"It will make sense in yours, too, when I am done explaining. You, Tim, are not like your teammates, are you?"

"Oh, so you're playing the 'explain my entire scheme to the good guy, since I'm going to kill them anyway' card? A fair warning, I should tell you that that never works out." Tim shook his head thoughtfully. "I didn't think people did it in real life, to tell you the truth. I kinda thought that was just a ploy used by Marvel comics to help fit an entire plotline into two pages of cartoons."

"Answer the question, please, Agent McGee." Mr. Simon was getting frustrated, and it showed on his face. The young man sitting across the table from him smiled innocently.

"I'm sorry. What was the question?"

"Oh, I think you know," said Simon. "You are extraordinarily observant, aren't you, Agent McGee? You have a brilliant mind, one that can process things that no one else notices, that no one else deems significant."

McGee shrugged, looking slightly flattered. "I'm an investigator."

"No," Mr. Simon leaned forward to make his point. "You are an author."

McGee's brows furrowed, making him look more like the insecure, nervous man Simon knew he was. "You know about that?"

"I know about everything," was the simple response. Mr. Simon liked the way it sounded. It was quiet, not exactly humble, but not dripping with over-confidence. It was a statement of fact, and Agent McGee knew it.

"I know," Agent Simon considered, "a lot about you, Tim. I know you feel like you're the third wheel of the team, because your co-workers have got something going on that you cannot share in. The closest you can get to being a part of such a connection is to write about it, isn't that true?"

"I'm a little confused," McGee admitted. "First you were flattering me, and now I'm being insulted?"

"Other people liked your books, didn't they? They enjoyed them, didn't they? They were just as intrigued as you about the psychology behind a team of everyday superheroes. They wanted to know why Tibbs was always so stone cold, what was hidden behind Tommy's bravado, what had made Lisa a killer."

"For the last time, those characters were not based of my co-workers!" Tim protested.

Mr. Simon smiled, the complacent smile of a mother whose child has just said something very stupid. "No? Then McGregor's relationship with Amy is a work of fiction? And the Tommy/Lisa tension was a figment of your imagination?"

McGee frowned stubbornly. "I guess so."

Again, the smug smile. "I think we both know that that is a lie, Tim. Your co-workers knew, too, didn't they? But you wouldn't admit it. Why was that?"

"Look, Tony would never let it go," Tim said finally. "Not to mention that Ziva would have dismembered me if I suggested that she was anything more than what she presented herself as."

"Perhaps that was a part of it," Mr. Simon conceded, "but that wasn't the real reason that you wrote your best-selling novels under a pseudonym, is it? You were…embarrassed, Tim, weren't you?"

"Embarrassed about what? The fact that hacking isn't the only thing I've got going for me?"

"No. You were embarrassed, because you saw your book for what it was - a shadow. And you didn't want others to see it as the same thing."

"A shadow? Are you a book critic or something?"

"Merely an observant bystander, a bit like yourself. You were a bystander to some real drama, weren't you? Some great plotlines came your way, and you couldn't resist, could you? So you wrote them down. Other people liked them, but you weren't satisfied, were you? You were ashamed that Tibbs, that Tommy and Lisa, that Amy, were only echoes of their real selves."

"For the last time, they are fictional!"

"Tell me, Tim. Have you ever sat down at your type-writer only to find that you cannot do it? To find that Agent Gibbs' infinite quirks, the ones that make him human, cannot be explained on paper? To find that you cannot represent Agent David correctly, cannot capture her wild spirit in typed words? To discover that you have written Agent DiNozzo to be an idiot, because you can't seem to find words to explain the real man within? And then you realized, didn't you, that your characters could only ever be that - just characters, echoes of the real people, who were infinitively more complex. And you were ashamed, weren't you?"

Agent McGee had no answer. Mr. Simon sat back, satisfied, ready to let the young Irishman wallow in this self-revelation for a moment or two. Once sufficiently marinated, he dug back in.

"You were ashamed, so you used a pseudonym. People liked your books, didn't they, Tim? You got praise and fame and money, but somehow you weren't satisfied. You felt as if you did not deserve it, because the characters weren't yours, and they weren't real. You saw your work for what is was - an echo of real life, and no matter what anyone else told you, you couldn't be satisfied."

"It was a work of fiction," said Tim slowly, raising his face to look at Mr. Simon, "just like your whole monologue was. You'd make a pretty good author yourself, you know that? You read into things well, if not accurately. You should look into it as an extra-curricular while you're locked up in your padded cell."

Mr. Simon was beyond insults at this point. McGee's reaction had been marvelous. The man was so sensitive, so perceptive, and each truth Simon spoke put another ounce of pain on Tim's expressive face. It was like painting a portrait of anguish, a masterpiece of fear."

"I know you doubt yourself, Agent McGee," Mr. Simon said quietly. "I know each and every one of your fears, of inadequacy, of not being good enough. And I know that they all have a basis."

"You're insane," McGee whispered. Mr. Simon smiled.

"Oh no. I am very much grounded. It's you I'm worried about, Tim." Simon stood slowly. "I will leave you now, I suppose. Enjoy your stay."

Mr. Simon took a few deliberate steps, counting in his head, waiting until the last second to drop his bomb, the ace in his hole. _Wait for it…wait for it…_

Just as he reached the door, he turned, as if with an after-thought. "I may have been a bit harsh with my criticism of your works of literature, Agent McGee. I apologize for that. Your writing is good, though I know your characters to be false." He paused.

"In fact, it was in reading your books that I developed my interest in psychology in the first place. Your books, you could say, were the basis for the great theory I am developing. And who better to test this theory on than the author and his subjects themselves."

The look on McGee's face was almost comical, it was so stunned. Mr. Simon did his best to hold in his glee. A serious face was needed to drive in his point.

"You could say, I suppose, that this whole mess you have gotten yourself into…_is entirely your fault_. Good day, Agent McGee."

And with that, he walked out.

**Review, please. I want to hear what you think, whether you liked it or not. Also - should Abby make an appearance in this story? I don't know if I'd be able to write her, because she's so original, but I'll give it a shot if you guys want. Yes? No? **

**P.S. - Anyone want to venture a guess on this caffeinated substance that Adam's addicted to? **


	7. Chapter 7

**Ladies and gentlemen, here you go. I have given you Abby...kinda. Someone mentioned that, as much as they love Abby, they feel this story should focus on 'the core four.' I totally agree. Besides, Abby is too crazy to analyze, even for a mad scientist like me...I mean, like Mr. Simon. So I've compromised. Let me know if you think she's OOC. Thanks for all the reviews. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I think these things were invented for the sole purpose of deflating proud authors like myself. I'm on my bright and shiny, 'I just wrote a good chapter' high, then - BAM! Back to reality. So, yeah, thanks for that.**

Abigail Sciuto was worried.

No. No, worried was the wrong term. Worried suggested there was something to be worried about. Which there wasn't.

No, she wasn't worried, she was…concerned, which basically meant the same thing, only not really. Concerned just meant that she was interested in the well-fare of her friends, which may or may not have been compromised.

It probably hadn't been.

Probably, she'd consumed one Caf-Pow too many, and this nervous energy was in consequence.

Probably, the team had just had a bad day, and Gibbs had decided to take it easy on them and let them go home. And, alright, that was not something Gibbs was prone to doing - taking it easy on them, she meant. But crazier things had happened…she just…couldn't think of any right now.

But that didn't mean anything. She was tired, after all, and whose memory worked at two o'clock in the morning? Of course, her memory wasn't an average person's memory, but no one was perfect. Except for Gibbs.

She frowned.

Gibbs hadn't come down to bid her goodnight. That _was _odd, but perhaps he'd been busy…preoccupied. Maybe it had just slipped his mind.

She flashed back to that birthday when she'd been convinced that Gibbs had forgotten her special day, only to find he'd known all along.

And the worry - no, the _concern_ - bubbled in her stomach.

Gibbs did not forget things like this. He did not. Okay, so maybe coming down to say goodnight to your forensic analyst was not a top concern for most people.

But Gibbs wasn't most people.

Gibbs did not forget stuff like this.

And suddenly Abigail Sciuto was _very_ concerned, the kind of concern that edged, even, on the border-line of worry.

Probably she'd just gone into Caf-Pow overload. It had happened before, it could happen again,

Probably, the team had just gone home. But the clutter on McGee's desk, and the lack of a goodbye from Gibbs begged to differ. McGee was a neat-freak. He wouldn't leave all that paperwork spread out on his desk. And Gibbs didn't forget this stuff. He was Gibbs, for Pete's sake!

For that matter…who the heck was Pete?

She took a long sip of her Caf-Pow to ground herself. _Focus, Abigail. _

Probably, Gibbs had just forgotten.

But this was Gibbs, and 'probably' was not the same thing as 'definitely.'

And so off she went, pigtails flying, Caf-Pow held aloft, to sound the alarm.

Simon was almost dancing, he was so happy. His ominous Darth Vader theme had been replaced with that annoyingly cheerful song he'd heard on the radio this morning.

_I'm walkin' on sunshine. Whoa-oh!_

Mr. Simon knew it wasn't possible to walk on sunshine. After all, sunshine was only solar energy, and not substantial enough to support a human's weight, even if that person was a skeleton of a man, who didn't weigh 120 pounds in a soaking wet lab coat. But if someone _could _walk on sunshine, he was pretty sure this was how it would feel.

Agent McGee's reaction had been brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Mr. Simon could practically picture the guilt, eating away at the young man's innards like a deadly acid. It made his skin crawl and his mouth twitch in something close to a grin.

He decided, during the brief walk from the interrogation room to the control room, that he would save the best for last, and tackle their lady friend.

Adam O'Toole was waiting at the door, anxious to make amends for his previous absence. His Caf-Pow addiction was really beginning to cause problems, it seemed. Problems that would have to be addressed.

"Sir, I would like to inform you that I have joined an internet support group for people trying to kick their Caf-Pow addictions," Adam said formally, crossing his fingers behind his back and hoping the interview had gone well. If Mr. Simon was satisfied with the results, he might be in good enough a mood to accept his apology.

Mr. Simon was impressed and more than a little touched. That his assistant was willing to abolish a life-long habit for his sake moved him. But he didn't want to turn into Mr. Softie, so he pretended to deliberate.

Adam's heart dropped. This was the end. He, his career, and his Thunderbird were about to be flushed down the drain in a whirlpool of red caffeinated juice.

"Apology accepted," Mr. Simon said finally. Adam blinked.

_What? _

"Now," Mr. Simon continued briskly, "we should get on with our task. I wish to begin the next phase of experiments by morning, so we have no time for dilly-dallying. I presume you saw the successful interview with our resident Irishman, hmm?"

Adam was slightly offended. How come he wasn't the resident Irishman? Was McGee more of an Irish name than O'Toole? He noticed Mr. Simon was staring, and quickly nodded, then went back to his deliberation.

"It went smashingly," Mr. Simon said in a tone that was almost…_happy_? And who said 'smashingly' nowadays anyway? "Yes," the false-doctor continued smugly, "I believe I hit all the sensitive areas. Just give it time and a couple of rude remarks from his co-workers, and our Agent's self-esteem will be at an all-time low. He'll be useless."

There was so much relish in Simon's voice, you could practically spread it on a hotdog. Not that Adam ate meat. He'd given it up after that…scarring experiment last year involving guinea pigs. For someone so reputedly squeamish, Mr. Simon was remarkably cruel when it came to lesser beings.

Simon, Adam reasoned, was one of those lab nerds who'd _enjoyed_ dissecting frogs in high school biology.

"It was a neat piece of work, doctor," Adam said in his best admiring voice. Simon beamed.

"Don't I know it, O'Toole. But, please, enough with the gushing about my ground-breaking brilliance. I'm terribly modest, you know."

This remark was so ludicrous that, for a moment, Adam thought his employer was kidding. But that thought was even more absurd than the first. Mr. Simon _never _joked. His brain, which had no trouble dismantling something complex, be it a hard drive or a brain, simply could not handle a joke.

In fact, the last time Adam had heard Simon laugh in pleasure had been during the guinea pig incident. Adam shuddered involuntarily. He still wasn't over that. Sometimes in his dreams he still heard those guinea pigs squealing.

"So I believe next we will tackle the psychological train wreck that is our lovely Agent David," announced Simon grandly. "You missed my first analysis of Agent David, I'm afraid, O'Toole. I may have disturbed Agent DiNozzo with some of the things I told him. But no matter. The truth hurts, and pain is remarkably revealing of a person's psychosis."

Mr. Simon chuckled. It took Adam a second to realize that his employer had just made a joke. Whoa. The guy must be really happy if he was actually _joking_.

Granted, it was an awful joke that no one except a mad scientist would find funny, but in this case the mad scientist was the one who signed the paycheck. So Adam laughed along. "Most amusing, doctor."

"I know, O'Toole. Now shut up and listen. Agent David is easily the most psychologically disturbed of our guests. She grew up in Israel, did you know that? Her younger sister was the victim of a violent roadside demonstration, involving explosives. Ziva, at eighteen, avenged her sister by slaughtering each and every one of the people responsible for the bombing."

Ooh. Adam winced. Hot chick suddenly wasn't looking so attractive, though some might say the element of danger added to the woman's charisma. Adam said those people were the kind who ended up murdered in ditches on the side of the highway.

"She joined the IDF, Israeli Defense Forces, after returning from her vengeance vacation, later graduating to Mossad. Her father is Director there. Our little killer quickly made herself known as the most capable agent in the business. She was fearless, ruthless, and heartless.

"She was assigned to be Ari Haswari's control officer." Mr. Simon looked pointedly at Adam, then sighed. "But of course, you don't know about Ari, because you were busy guzzling Sham-Wow, weren't you?"

"Sir, it's not Sham-Wow, it's-"

"For the last time, O'Toole, you shall address me as _Doctor_!"

Adam tried not to grimace. "My apologies, s- Ahem. Doctor."

"Accepted," his employer said distractedly, glancing at his wrist-watch. "Well, we are running low on time, O'Toole, so the rest of Ziva David's biography will have to wait. Just sit and watch. I think you will enjoy this interview in particular."

Mr. Simon stood up, neatly positioning his chair beneath his desk and striding towards the door. "Just sit tight," he repeated, "and wait for the fireworks."

**I'm really excited for the next chapter. Ziva truly is a psychological disaster, and I can't wait to sink Mr. Simon's teeth into her. Oh, by the way, the prize goes to ShortSarcasm, for being the first to guess that Adam was drinking Caf-Pow. **

**So, I hoped you enjoyed. Review, please? It will make me smile...but, seriously, Mr. Simon asks that you refrain from...er, profanity. :-)  
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	8. Chapter 8

**Let's hear it for angsty Ziva character study! This isn't such a funny one, sorry, but I love it with all my heart anyway. Ziva's frame of mind is so intriguing, and I couldn't help but get really caught up in it, so it's kinda long. Oh, well. Enjoy it anyway.**

**Disclaimer: All I've got are a couple of ideas, a mad scientist, and really tired fingers from all this typing.**

The second she snapped out of her drug-induced sleep, Ziva David was on the alert, mind processing things so quickly that it took her only a second or so to take in her surroundings. It was a classic-style interrogation room, designed for intimidation.

There were at least three cameras that she could see, secreted in the corners of the room like big, ugly spiders. The hinges on one of the full-length mirrors on the far left suggested a cleverly-disguised door. The folding table and chairs were screwed to the ground, to prevent, she supposed, over-zealous interrogators from throwing them through a mirror. Tony would be disappointed.

Speaking of Tony…Ziva wondered what had happened to the others. She could only assume they had been deposited in rooms identical to her own to await whatever was to come.

An interrogation room could only mean one thing. These people wanted answers. It was up to Ziva to gauge just how far they were willing to go to procure this information.

She hoped they wouldn't resort to torture.

She could handle it, she was sure. She had been renowned in Mossad for her incredible pain-tolerance. That was not to say she didn't dread it, didn't pray for death every moment of it. But she had suffered in silence, and she was sure she could do it again.

It was the others she was worried about. Of course, they'd all been involved in hostage situations before. They were brave, and she was sure they wouldn't give anything away on purpose. But not everyone was Ziva David, and as much as she loved her team, when came down to it, the only person in the world she could trust was herself.

So she set to work on the handcuffs. They'd cuffed her hands in front of her, which aided the process infinitely.

It was painful, but she was able to twist her arms enough so that the minute lock was visible. It didn't look terribly complicated. She'd been in worse.

The notion that she'd been through worse, survived worse, and emerged virtually unscathed - though she supposed that depended on your definition of 'unscathed' - was strangely reassuring. It calmed her mind, which had been racing since they'd first woken up in the big concrete chamber. She supposed it was the after-effects of her…erm, stay in Somalia. The psychologist had warned her that there might be long-term phobias. She'd shrugged it off, just as she had with the rest of the doctor's advice. Hell, she'd shrugged off the entire thing. All she'd wanted was for everything to return to normal as quickly as possible, so that she could slip back into her comfortable role as Supergirl, the one who saved the world, not the one who needed saving.

The costume didn't seem to fit as well anymore, but she'd swelled herself up with bluster and attitude until it did. Ziva was nothing if not a fighter.

She was making good progress on the cuffs when she heard footsteps approaching. The door swung up as she settled her hands back into her lap and fixed her best innocent look on her face.

"Miss David," Mr. Simon said courteously, with a nod of his head in greeting. He'd abandoned his 'Good Evening' after much deliberation, as the last two agents had not reacted quite as he'd anticipated.

Ziva took in her captor as he sat down across from her. He was perhaps in his thirties, with nondescript features and dark hair. His complexion was an unhealthy white, and there was something…_off _about his eyes. She had dealt with enough psychos to be able to recognize their defining points, and so far this man was reading in as just that - a psychopath.

She was not sure whether this development was helpful or harmful. Most likely their captor was unstable, which meant that she had to be careful about what she said or did not say. Any offhand comment could be the straw the broke the…elephant's back?

No. No, elephants could remember, but straw broke…llama's backs?

She did not think that was right either, but there were more pressing matters right now than determining which species of animals it was that had such brittle vertebrates. If their captor was indeed unstable, she needed to focus on keeping him calm.

She wondered if Tony had met this strange, ghostly man yet, and if so, how he had fared. Tony was not renowned for his tact. In fact, he could be quite irritating. Mixing him with an unstable antagonist was a recipe for bad jokes and, well, overall disaster.

Mr. Simon was not overall surprised with the total lack of reaction from the female agent. After all, no doubt she'd been trained to withstand persuasive techniques, violent or otherwise, designed to make people talk. It would be quite interesting to see her pain-tolerance levels. Everyone had a breaking point, though some were higher than others, and Simon was eager to see what happened when that point was met.

Right now, however, he was interested in a different type of torture. The agents would be so much easier to break once their defenses were shattered, so right now that was where his focus lay.

"I believe it is customary, Agent David," Mr. Simon said, "to respond when someone greets you."

Agent David looked back at him blankly. Mr. Simon sighed. He'd written out a script for the interview, but scripts weren't usually comprised of a one-sided conversation with a blank-faced, stubborn agent.

"Am I getting the silent treatment, Miss David? I expected such juvenilities from your co-worker, perhaps, but not from you."

He detected a brief glitter of worry in her eyes when he mentioned her co-workers. That was interesting. Perhaps Miss David was not quite as emotionally detached from her teammates as she pretended, to both herself and her colleagues, to be.

There was a moment of terribly awkward silence while Mr. Simon considered what to do. They couldn't just sit in silence like this, after all, especially when it triggered such painful memories of that awful blind date he'd gone on a couple of years ago with that ugly dental hygienist. He'd spent a torturous evening with the woman, trying to think of the most tactful way to tell her to keep her fork out of his salad.

Eventually, he'd just informed her that her tendency to speak rapidly in a high-pitched voice was the result of pent up nervous tension, and that there was a lettuce leaf stuck between her teeth. When she'd excused herself, not-so-subtly slipping a toothpick into her purse, he'd made a break for it.

Those memories were far from fond, and the silence was not aiding in his attempts to repress the humiliating flash-backs. He was doing his best to not think about the lettuce leaf - from _his_ salad, nonetheless - stuck between the woman's overlarge teeth when an idea hit him like a ton of bricks.

Ziva David, as he had poetically described her to O'Toole, was an emotional train wreck. It wouldn't take much to send her brain into a psychological meltdown.

She had difficulty trusting her co-workers. Combining this with the choice information he had let slip to Agent DiNozzo, there was sure to be confrontations to come.

She, like Agent McGee, only needed the slightest of nudges to send her own self-confidence crashing to the ground. It would make for an interesting scene. The girl who had been taught that she could trust no one but herself suddenly realizes how very weak she is.

Yes, that is what he would do. Forget about gauging her remorse for past deeds done in cold-heart, this could very well destroy Agent David. How very interesting.

"I suppose you could just be too petrified to talk to me," Mr. Simon continued conversationally. "I do tend to strike fear in the hearts of those who look me in the eye. I am told that the sheer capacity of my brain is enough to reduce mortals to ash."

Ziva couldn't help but snort. This, coming from a man in a white lab coat who positively reeked of hand sanitizer.

It was just the reaction Mr. Simon wanted, even if it was slightly offensive. Why was this such a difficult lie to swallow?

"But I suppose you don't think yourself among regular mortals, do you, Agent David? You are, perhaps, superior? Stronger? Smarter? More capable? You were raised to be so, were you not? You were raised to be the best." Mr. Simon shrugged. "Perhaps you truly are. After all, you've outlived both your brother and sister."

The reaction was miniscule, but there all the same in the tensing of neck muscles and flash of pain in her dark eyes.

"Oh, yes, I know about little Tali," Mr. Simon said calmly. This was going to fun. Perhaps he'd play back the recording of the interview later, with a tub of popcorn and a notebook, in case a sudden flash of inspiration came for the book he was planning to write.

"You were your father's daughter, whether you liked it or not. But Tali was different. Tali was sweet and genuine. She looked for the best in people. You looked for a person's weaknesses, so that you could defeat them if need be. She was all that was good and sweet and innocent, and you couldn't help but love her, could you?"

The pain was very real in Agent David's eyes, as real as anything Simon had seen in the irises of Agents McGee and DiNozzo. He had gotten through to her at last.

He was improvising remarkably well. Usually he was one to flub up anything that hadn't been broken down into detail on Microsoft Excel, then analyzed, revised, and rehearsed eighteen million times. But this was child's play. All he had to do was parrot back the woman's life story, notating sensitive points to go back and probe for further reaction.

"Yes, you loved her, didn't you? You all did, even your father, who saw his offspring as tools. And that is why, in some twisted way, you hated her, didn't you?" Simon leaned forward, as he had learned was effective in making a point. It showed you were in dead earnest. "You hated her, because she was everything you were not, everything that you were not allowed to be. She was sweet and sunny, and people loved her for it. And you knew that you would never be loved like that. You saw things for what they were. She saw hopes and dreams and wishes. You saw bald fact and harsh truth."

Finally, Agent David spoke, leaning in so that her face was inches from Simon's. "That is a load of-" She said something in Hebrew that Simon could only guess was profanity.

"No. No, it's not, and I think you know it, Agent David, because you have been taught to accept truths, whether or not you like them. Your father taught you that, didn't he? He taught you everything about who to be, and that is why you were so confused, so twisted. You were everything your father wanted, cold and detached and fearless, and yet he didn't love you. Not like he loved Tali. Tali, who was good and sweet and utterly naïve, everything Daddy David had worked so hard to hammer out of you. It didn't make sense."

Agent David leaned back in her seat and did her best to maintain an ever-weakening poker face. Enjoying himself thoroughly, Mr. Simon continued.

"But you couldn't hate Tali, could you? You couldn't, because she was so good-natured, and you loved her for it. You loved her for her belief that there was still good in the world, even though your own candid eyes told you otherwise."

More Hebrew words that Mr. Simon could only assume, judging from the venomous tone with which they were delivered, were curses.

"Please, Agent David. If you are going to speak, I would prefer English," Mr. Simon said smoothly. Ziva glared at him, then sunk back into a sulky silence.

"Thank you. Where were we? Oh, yes. Good, sweet Tali, who was victim of a suicide bomber, was she not? Her death was the ultimate proof to you, wasn't it, that there truly was no good left in the world? It was symbolic irony that your innocent sister died in violence, the last bit of good in the world and in yourself lost in a blast of destruction. Almost laughable, isn't it?"

This time the curses were in English, and so utterly vile that Mr. Simon winced. This was different from Agent DiNozzo cursing him out. Agent DiNozzo's words were crude, meant to mock him. Miss David's oaths were hissed under her breath in a taut, angry stream of filth. The pain in her eyes was wretched. Mr. Simon smiled.

"And so the _true_ best of the David children is slaughtered randomly, without real rhyme or reason. And the second David is put down in a dusty basement, stabbed in the back, or should I say shot in the head, by his own kin. And then we have you."

Agent David glared at him with hollow eyes.

"Why do you think you survived, Miss David? Was it because you truly were the best, the strongest, the most capable? Was it merely evolution, the survival of the fittest, in action? In many ways you were the strongest, weren't you?"

For a while he had just been improvising, but during the brief interlude of profanity, courtesy of Agent David, Mr. Simon had the time to collect himself. Now he had a point to drive in. A very good point, if he did say so himself, something he was remarkably adept at doing.

"In others ways, you are the weakest," he continued, "because you feel fear. Tali felt fear, of course, but only that of a child. She was only a child who was eager to see the best in everyone. The things she feared were like monsters under the bed, far off things that she could not define. She feared that her illusions of goodness were only that - illusions, but she never had the opportunity to grow old enough to have these fears proven true." He smiled.

"Because they are true, aren't they? Ari learned that. He was once like Tali, ready to see the glass half full. But he grew up to see those far-off things take shape. And once his greatest fears had come true, he had nothing to lose. He truly was without fear after that."

"You do not know what you are talking about."

"Oh, but we both know otherwise. You may pretend not to, but you know just as well as I that what I'm saying is the truth. One of these days, your dam will burst and all your pretenses will come crashing down on you. You can only lie to yourself for so long, Ziva."

The Israeli woman blinked, the only sign that what Simon said had affected her. It was enough to encourage him to push onward.

"You are the master at lying to yourself, aren't you? It started when you went and killed those people responsible for Tali's death. You told yourself _this is what Tali would want_. And after that you couldn't stop. You told yourself that you were strong. That you could handle anything and everything. You told yourself that Ari was innocent, even though deep down inside you knew he was off the deep end and had been for some time.

"You told yourself that you could not trust your co-workers, even though you knew that, really, it was yourself you couldn't trust. You told yourself that your father would never put you in harm's way."

The breath hitched in Agent David's throat, a little choke with a big meaning. Mr. Simon was practically bouncing up and down in his seat in glee. He was breaking through the walls, one revelation at a time.

"And you're still lying to yourself, aren't you? You tell yourself that you're over Somalia, because you're Ziva David, and nothing gets to you. You tell yourself that you can cope, that you can handle it all by yourself, because you're not some regular human. You're Ziva David.

"You tell yourself," he continued, "that you are Ziva David, therefore you are fearless, but I think you know, somewhere inside of you, that that is a _lie_, because you, Ziva, are the single most fearful person I have ever come across in my entire life. You are scared to be anything but invincible, and you're scared because you know that you're not. And you're scared that you feel fear, because superheroes don't feel fear. It's a vicious cycle, isn't it?"

In an action nearly identical to her two co-workers, Agent David leant forward in her seat to look Simon straight in the eye. And she shivered.

"You are insane," she breathed. Simon smiled.

"And you lie to yourself yet again."

He stood, pushing in his chair neatly before speaking again. "But I won't press the matter. You can keep the illusion alive if you like. If you would prefer to pretend that I am insane, rather than face the fact that you are scared that perhaps I am _right_, you can go right ahead. But mark my words, Miss David. You are not invincible. And one of these days you're going to tell one too many lies, and it'll all crash down on you. And you'll realize how weak you truly are."

**Next up is the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs...I'm scared. Gibbs is the biggest mystery to me of all the agents. He's as warped as Ziva, but in a way that I can't really define. The next update may not be as prompt as the last few have been, since I have a lot of research to do. (Don't you love it when 'research' means watching a bunch of NCIS episodes?)  
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**Whoa! 40 reviews! You people are incredible! Thank you so much to everyone who drops me a line. You make me ridiculously happy. Now let's see if we can make it to 50, eh? Love to everyone! As Abby would say, I'm hugging you all in my mind. **

** P.S. - Speaking of Abby, how'd I do on writing her bit in the last chapter? Was she totally OOC? Let me know, please, so I can work on it. She'll play a small part in the plot line, so any pointers would be appreciated. Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

**This is kind of a filler, sorry. I'm having some difficulty writing the Gibbs chapter, so the next update may take some time. Is my Abby okay? She's really hard to write, because her mind is all over the place. Let me know what you think. Also - how long is too long? I've still got a while to go. How many chapters can I write before people lose interest? Opinions, por favor.**

**Disclaimer: sigh. **

Abby stopped short at the doors of her lab and frowned, because she had just realized something, something she would have preferred to stay, well, _unrealized_… Was that even a word?

Abby studied her Caf-Pow suspiciously, then plunked it down on the nearest open bit of countertop. When she began to question her own vocabulary, she had reached a point in caffeine consumption that Timmy liked to call the meltdown zone. Then it was best to put the Caf-Pow down and back away…slowly.

Worry stabbed at her heart, and she didn't even bother trying to rename it. She was _worried _about her Timmy.

Her caffeine-wired brain wanted nothing more than to jump into action, finding the nearest telephone booth to turn into Supergirl, so she could fly off to save the day. But there was that one problem that refused to stay unrealized.

Because while her gut, developed over years of work with Gibbs, told her something was afoot, there was a lack of real evidence. Vance would need more than a funny feeling. Vance would want concrete evidence and a neatly typed case report, organized with brightly colored Post-it notes and devoid of Caf-Pow stains that were prone to making an appearance on important papers.

Yes, Vance would need proof, something that Abby most definitely did not have, unless you counted her gut, which she was quite sure Vance would not appreciate as Gibbs would have. Vance would only count her gut as evidence if it was neatly bagged and tagged, which was just gross.

There was no way that Vance would ever count her gut as evidence unless it was lying in autopsy while Palmer made inappropriate jokes about lunch meat or something to that effect. Her nose wrinkled at this gross thought. Palmer really did have the worst timing. She didn't know how Ducky-

Ducky!

That was it! Ducky would know what to do! Donald Mallard, who had a story and a kind word for all occasions, would have a solution, or at least a welcoming hug and a cup of freshly-brewed tea.

Abby jumped to her feet, happy to be in action once more. She raced out of her lab, skidding to a short stop on her platform boots in front of the elevator as a thought, this one much more agreeable, hit her. As the doors to the elevator _dinged_ open, Abby charged back into the lab to scoop up her Caf-Pow. Now she truly was ready to save her friends.

Adam O'Toole was, for lack of a better word, impressed. But he wouldn't tell Simon that, of course, since his self-preservation instincts told him that he would never hear the end of it if Simon got the slightest inkling that someone admired him. The guy was bad enough as it was.

Mr. Simon seemed to have a pretty substantial sense of his own importance, even without Adam's input. He marched back into the control room like he was a king and his lab coat was his regal robe. Adam supposed that made him the subject. He wondered if he got regal robes. Knowing Mr. Simon, he doubted it.

"Well, O'Toole?" Mr. Simon beamed expectantly at his assistant. He knew he had performed remarkably well, but a little confidence booster never hurt, and Adam could always be counted on to deliver the compliments. Simon sometimes wondered if Adam was a little too infatuated with him for it to be quite healthy.

"Impressive, sir," Adam said, and for the first time there was a bit of real sincerity in his voice. It really had been impressive, the way his loser of a boss had broken down the indifferent Israeli. He'd always looked at Simon as all talk and no show, but now he was reconsidering this assessment. Obviously the Simon knew a little something about psychology, or he wouldn't have gotten through to the agent.

"I know, O'Toole," was the modest reply. Adam rolled his eyes. Of course, that didn't change the fact that his boss still was a neurotic loser. It just made it a little harder for Adam to roll his eyes at the man's antics and shrug it off.

Simon smiled, sitting down in his chair happily. "Schneider!"

The pretty blond audio technician looked up anxiously. "Sir?"

Simon frowned. Why was it so hard for these people to remember to refer to him as Doctor? He made a mental note to hold a staff meeting to address the issue as soon as this test was over. Honestly, didn't he deserve a little respect?

"My title is Doctor, Schneider. And unless you'd like your title to be 'Unemployed,' I suggest you remember it."

The girl blushed furiously. "My apologies, Doctor. What can I do for you?"

"I want triplicate copies of the interviews burned onto DVDs," Simon dictated. These would make for lovely Christmas presents for himself. Perhaps he'd send one to Medical Weekly as well, to review. It might just be his big break.

Schneider hurried to do as she had been told, scribbling on her hand: _Remember to call Mr. S. __Doctor__!_

Mr. Simon looked on as she did so disapprovingly. "You know that you could very well contract blood poisoning from such foolish actions, Miss Schneider. I would advise against it, unless you wish the ink to enter your blood stream."

He shuddered. The mere thought made him itch for hand sanitizer. He dug in his pocket for his favorite lilac-scented travel bottle of disinfectant and soaped up, just to be safe, before returning his attention to O'Toole, whose recently inflated opinion of Simon was rapidly deteriorating.

"Really. People take such risks with their health," Mr. Simon sniffed, shaking his head. Adam rolled his eyes.

"Astonishing, doctor."

"Absolutely. Now, O'Toole, for the greatest feat of all. We will tackle Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Adam snorted. Mr. Simon turned to frown at him for ruining the moment of great dramatics. He had envisioned Adam looking on in awe, not making noises like that of a pig. Really, it was quite uncivilized.

"Do you find something amusing, Mr. O'Toole? Has your sense of humor so deteriorated, that you have resorted to making fun of peoples' names in order to tickle your funny bone?"

Adam winced. It wouldn't be surprising if his sense of humor had been utterly blasted to bits after working with Mr. Simon, whose idea of a joke was a pun involving some complicated medical terminology that only he and, like, Dr. House would be able to understand. "I apologize, doctor."

"Thank you, O'Toole. Please, try to control yourself. I expect only the best from my employees, and right now you are not giving me a hundred and ten percent. You have to up your game, or I will be forced to replace you."

_Up my game_? Adam wondered if Mr. Simon had been watching too many late-night movies about aspiring athletes and karate kids on Disney channel. Where else would he have gotten a phrase like that? He wondered if Simon was a High School Musical fan.

"Anyway," Simon continued, blissfully unaware of O'Toole far-from-flattering ponderings, "next we shall tackle Agent Gibbs. Do not let him fool you, O'Toole. He is a force with which to be reckoned. His frame of mind is perhaps as warped as Agent David's, but in an entirely different way. He is ultimately as weak as the rest, but his defenses are better."

Mr. Simon brought the video feed from Agent Gibbs' interrogation room up to the big screen, in order to impress upon Adam how difficult this next task would be. Adam looked into the cold blue eyes of the older man, and he believed Mr. Simon.

"Agent Gibbs took a bit longer to break down," Simon continued, "until I realized something. This something is both Agent Gibbs' strength and his downfall. He lost his entire family in a tragic murder, and it left him a hardened man. There is almost nothing left for him to care about, and when a man has moved beyond caring, he is indeed invincible. But Agent Gibbs has not yet fallen that far. He is fiercely protective of his team, truly the only family that he has left. That is his one weakness, and one that can be turned against him with little effort."

Adam had promised himself that he was going to listen to Simon's pre-interrogation briefings with an open mind from now on, but he found himself zoning out once more. It was really hard to take Simon seriously when his hands still smelled like lilac disinfectant.

"Another thing that I found quite useful was a tendency that Agent Gibbs inherited from his first wife. He has rules, a set of guidelines which must be followed religiously, covering everything from inter-office relationships to coffee. This shows an overwhelming need to be in control of a situation. And that is where my idea formulated.

"You see, Agent Gibbs needs to be in control in order to feel invincible, but now he's not. He is just a pawn in my game, as completely powerless as the rest of the agents. All we have to do is tell him that. All we have to do is tell him 'this is what I've done to your agents, and you can't do anything about it.' It combines his need to protect his people with his need to be in charge."

"Brilliant, sir."

Mr. Simon was rather disappointed with the lack-luster response from Adam. He'd been proud of this particular thesis. He'd hypothesized for days before the plan had hit him. Perhaps Adam just needed some fresh material. A departure from the norm in vocabulary, perhaps, to spice him up.

Mr. Simon decided that this year he would give Adam a thesaurus along with the autographed picture of himself for the man's birthday. Perhaps he would even highlight some especially complimentary phrases as a subtle hint.

Yes, that sounded like a plan. He would just have to find out when O'Toole's birthday was. He hoped it was soon. He really wasn't sure how much longer he could suffer through the same tedious responses. Not to mention he had a strange fondness for those plastic-y cupcakes people always brought in on their birthdays.

"Well, O'Toole, we have only one subject remaining," Mr. Simon said grandly, rising from his seat as majestically as he could, while ensuring that his chair did not go flying as it had last time. "My quest is almost complete."

And with that Simon strode from the room as purposefully as possible, smiling inwardly at how impressive he knew he must look. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd reduced some of the technicians to tears. He could almost hear the smattering of applause he was sure had accompanied his departure.

Oh, it was good to be king.

Back in the control room, Emily Schneider made a dive for the nearest bottle of hand sanitizer, determined to stop further contamination of her blood stream. A second technician looked on in sympathy. "Don't listen to him, Em. He's just a gasbag in a lab coat who thinks he's Doctor Phil."

Adam sighed and wondered if it was too late to withdraw his admission into the Caf-Pow Addicts Anonymous. If the rest of this experiment was anything like tonight had been, he was going to need all the help he could get.

**So, yeah. I need input, people. Thanks to everyone who reviews. I love you guys. Sorry if the next update takes a couple of days. I'm working my tail off, I promise you. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Whoa! Talk about feedback! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, subscribed to an alert, or favorited. You guys totally blew me away with your support. This chapter's dedicated to everyone who reviewed and motivated me, but especially to melraemorgan, who did _not_ offend me with her motivational review. You guys inspired me to update quickly. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: blub blub blub**

Mr. Simon was…not scared, exactly. After all, he was Mr. Simon, and emotions were so far below him that he needed a microscope to examine them. No, he wasn't scared, he was…_apprehensive_. Far more apprehensive than he had been with any of the other agents. Because Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not just any other agent. He was a force to reckon with, even when handcuffed to a chair.

Mr. Simon knew that he would have to be careful. This plan was risky. After all, the whole plan was comprised of Mr. Simon relating the plan to Agent Gibbs. It really _was_ a move out of Marvel comic's clichéd plotlines, as Agent McGee had unkindly pointed out.

But Mr. Simon was not one of those strange evil villains with a penchant for theatrical costumes - long, black cape aside, of course. He had a reason for giving away his scheme, and unless he was mistaken - which he rarely, if ever, was - this reason could bring Agent Gibbs toppling to the ground.

If things went wrong - his scientific mind forced him to consider all possibilities, however unlikely they might be - his scheme would be right there, out in the open. And Agent Gibbs would be sure to cut an impressive figure in the testifier's box. He would stare the jury into submission with those icy blues.

Thoughts like that were silly, though. Mr. Simon knew full well that his plan would not fail him. Months and months of watching the man sand boats in his basement could not be wrong. He'd found the agent's kryptonite, and he was ready to use it.

Inwardly, Simon winced. Agent McGee's mention of Marvel comics was doing things to his head. First imagining himself in a long cloak, now kryptonite references?

Agent Gibbs looked up as Mr. Simon let himself into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He'd always hated slamming doors.

"Hello, Agent Gibbs."

"What do you want?"

Goodness, was the man always this blunt? Simon supposed that after five months of surveillance, he knew the answer to that. Agent Gibbs was a bit of the - what was the whimsical term? Oh, yes - the strong and silent type. Though he wouldn't be strong for much longer.

"That is what I am here to talk to you about," said Simon, determinedly composed. He had a part to play, that of a mad scientist, and he refused to foul it up, however unnatural the role of a neurotic was to him.

"NCIS doesn't negotiate."

"Believe me, I am well aware of your agency's terms," he assured Gibbs. "Fortunately for me, I am not interested in negotiation."

"Then why are we here?" Agent Gibbs refused to show curiosity, but Mr. Simon knew it was there all the same. He decided to make the agent sweat it out for a couple more minutes, giving the man a taste of his own medicine, so to speak. Now Agent Gibbs would know what it felt like to be the one in the interrogation room, staring at the mirrored walls and wondering if anyone was looking back.

"That is for me to know, Agent Gibbs, and for you to find out," Mr. Simon dictated crisply, "and that brings me to why I am here. Rather, why you are here."

"Which would be…" Agent Gibbs prompted, and Mr. Simon had to stop himself from answering. The gruff, silver-haired man certainly had a persuasive charisma about him that told Simon's instincts to answer, or be fried by the electricity crackling in the blue eyes that looked back at him.

He took a moment to collect himself. _He _was the one in charge of this game, whether Agent Gibbs liked it or not, and it was up to him to decide how to play.

He couldn't afford such foolish outbursts. He had to give away just enough to alert Gibbs to the fact that _Simon_, not Gibbs, was calling the shots here, but not enough to give the agents an advantage over him. It was a tricky task, one that had to monitored closely, and Simon was glad that Agent Gibbs tended to be silent. It made it easier to hear himself think.

"You are here because I invited you, Agent Gibbs."

"Some invitation," he snorted, glaring most impressively.

Simon wondered if he would ever be able to glare like that. The hours spent practicing the patented 'Gibbs glare' in front of the mirror had so far done nothing but given him severe headaches and dried his eyeballs out in such a way that he had had to make a midnight run to the pharmacy for some eye-drops. But he would continue to persevere. Simon was nothing if not determined.

"Yes, I apologize if my men were a bit forcible. It's hard to find good help these days, you know. People are terribly incompetent. And then they wonder why unemployment rates are so high."

Gibbs sighed and spat contemptuously. Mr. Simon flinched and jumped away from the glob of saliva like it carried the plague…which was a very good possibility as, after all, it had been estimated that there were over 100 million microbes in every milliliter of saliva . He reached frantically for the his pocket-sized bottle of lilac-scented hand sanitizer and did his very best not to totally freak out.

"Please, Agent Gibbs," he scolded, his voice a bit more quivery than he had first intended. "We are not at a baseball game. Let's keep our unsanitary, disease-carrying saliva to ourselves, shall we?"

Mr. Simon watched suspiciously as the agent's mouth worked, as if preparing another glob of spit to launch, and hurried on with his prepared speech before things could get any grosser.

"You were brought here, Agent Gibbs, because I chose you. I selected you, out of thousands, because I saw something in you that was too intriguing to pass up. Do you know what that was?"

It appeared that Agent Gibbs had no intention of giving Simon the satisfaction of a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer.

"I saw in you and your team a remarkable quality. I saw loyalty and friendship and love. And I saw pain and fear and betrayal. But what interested me most was the trust. Despite everything, or perhaps _because_ of everything, the feeble trust was still there. Don't you find that intriguing, Agent Gibbs?"

Mr. Simon sighed as, once more, he got nothing but a grunt in reply. Making a mental note to leave further questions out of the speech, he continued, editing as he went.

"So I've brought you in to conduct a bit of a study on you. I've been watching you for months, Agent Gibbs, and I know just about everything there is to know about you and your team. I know what will get to you. I know your weak spots.

"And that's why you're here. I'm going to analyze you, get inside your head, find out what makes you tick. And if, in the process, I destroy the trust that first interested me in you, all the better. Do you know why, Agent Gibbs? Because while trust is an interesting thing, people are so much more vulnerable when they are alone. United we stand, divided we fall is the saying, I believe. It's the truth."

"How exactly are you planning on destroying our trust?" The words were dry, almost mocking in their sarcasm, but Mr. Simon could sense the underlying curiosity.

"Planning?" Mr. Simon smiled and feigned surprised innocence. "Oh, you're a bit behind on the schedule, Agent Gibbs. You see, I already have. I simply sat down across the table from your agents and told them exactly what was going on in their head. You'd be surprised what damage a little introspection can do. It leads to doubt, to conflict. I'm afraid that the next time you see your agents, you will not be sailing on smooth waters. In fact, I'd advise bringing a pair of earplugs."

"You sick-"

Profanity followed. It seemed federal agents had a hard time expressing themselves verbally, so they resorted to heavily clichéd and highly vulgar phrases that Mr. Simon, really, could have done quite well without.

"It was really quite simple," Mr. Simon said, deciding to cut the string of oaths short before his ears started bleeding. "Your agents' pretenses, while well-constructed and no doubt fairly effective, were no match for a mind like my own. It was a matter of days before I knew their heads, inside out."

Alright, so that was a bit of an exaggeration, but Agent Gibbs did not have to know that. It was good to appear like you had all the answers, even when you didn't. Simon, of course, liked to think that he _did _have all the answers and could probably even anticipate the question before it was asked.

"Your Agent McGee, for example, is terribly insecure, which greatly aided the process. All I had to do was tell him about his current state of mind, give him a little something over which to feel guilty, and -hey, presto - we have ourselves a nervous break-down."

"If you hurt one of my agents, you sicko, I swear-"

"No bodily harm has come to any of your agents since you last saw them," Mr. Simon assured the man grandly. "As for their minds…that is a different story. For example, I believe your hands will be a bit full with your Agents DiNozzo and David. I happened to let slip a couple of bits of information about your resident assassin that her partner was not entirely happy about. All part of the plan, of course, because angry confrontations often lead to downed defenses.

"But do you know what the best part of this is, Agent Gibbs? Do you know what really takes the cake, so to speak?"

Again, of course, there was no answer, but it did not much affect Mr. Simon. After all, the questions were mostly rhetorical.

"The best part is that there's nothing you can do about it. That's why I can inform you of my entire plan. Because even if you go back in there and tell them 'this is what this brilliant scientist wants us to do. This is how he wants us to act,' the truth is that you can't stop it. You can't repair the kind of damage I've inflicted upon your agent's self-confidence and trust."

Agent Gibbs leaned forward in his set, bracing himself against the table, and let his eyes sear Mr. Simon's own with their pure intensity. "You are-"

Mr. Simon sighed and interrupted before the agent could complete the sentence he knew was coming. "Insane. I know. Really, you people have absolutely no imagination."

"You are not going to succeed," Agent Gibbs finished calmly. "You know why? 'Cause you only see the bad in the people, the problems, so you don't know what loyalty is. Loyalty can't be destroyed with a couple of lies."

"Perhaps not," Mr. Simon conceded. "But I have not lied to any of your agents, Gibbs. Every single thing I told them was the truth." He shrugged. "The truth hurts sometimes. That pain has already broken the bond, Gibbs. I will leave you to try to pick up the pieces, though I doubt-"

Mr. Simon stopped. Doubt? Doubt didn't sound confident enough…

"Though I _know _you will be unsuccessful. So I will leave you to think on this, Agent Gibbs - what's done is done, and it's irreversible. And you get a front row seat to the psychological breakdown of the century."

**And that's a wrap, folks! How'd I do on our fearless leader? I'm a tad bit nervous, because Gibbs is so...well, he's _Gibbs_! Any opinions are appreciated. Was he OOC? Ugh. I'm so freaked out about this one. Let me know, please?**

** So next comes the second set of experiments, which I'm way too excited about. Oh, and some major confrontation, because Tiva fights are too great to pass up. Don't worry, though. I couldn't totally destroy the amazing bond that the team has...but that's not to say that Simon won't try...**

**Lastly, a question of length. How long is too long for a good story? How long should I make this? I've got a while to go and a ton of ideas, but I don't want people to lose interest. Any suggestions? How long can you read something before you get bored? Review and let me know. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey, everyone. Sorry I didn't update yesterday. I was up all night at a sleepover, and couldn't summon the energy to do anything other than lay on the couch and watch Indiana Jones (for an old guy, Harrison Ford is sooo hot!) But thanks to a good night's sleep and 11 whopping reviews from you amazing people, I am back again. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. The rest of you should thank those reviewers, too. They're the ones who motivate me to update so quickly.**

**Disclaimer: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. If I picked a peck of pickled peppers, could I have NCIS?...try saying that three times fast!**

"Hello?" The Scotchman's voice was bleary with sleep, but Abby didn't have the time to feel bad about it. She didn't have time, squat, because _something _was wrong, and it wasn't just the after-effects of one too many Caf-Pows…She hoped.

"Ducky!"

Doctor Donald Mallard's voice was a bit more lucid when he next spoke, which might have had something to do with the significant volume of Abby's enthusiastic greeting. "Abigail? Is something the matter, my dear?"

Abby did her best not to bounce up and down on the balls of her feet in impatience. Of course something was the matter!

"Yes, Ducky! The matter is that Gibbs did not come down to say goodnight, which he always, always does, except when something's wrong. Which means that there's something wrong, because this is Gibbs we're talking about, Ducky, not some-some-"

"My dear, how many Caf-Pows have you had today? Your voice sounds rather…odd."

To tell you the truth, Abby had lost count after the eighth red tumbler. Some people ate chocolate when they were stressed. Abby drank massive quantities of caffeinated red juice.

"A few," she admitted guiltily, before remembering the pressing matter that had led her to call in the first place. "Ducky! I'm worried about Gibbs! His phone is off, Ducky. All their phones are off. They should know better than that, _Gibbs _should know better than that! I mean, he's Gibbs. They're his rules, and it would be totally hypocritical of him to not follow his own rules, except…does Rule 51 cancel out the hypocrisy?"

"Abigail…_Abby!_" Ducky said loudly, cutting through Abby's hysterical monologue. "Are you still at the office?"

"What? Oh, yes," Abby sniffled. "Yeah, I was waiting down there for Gibbs to come and say goodnight, because he always, always does that, Ducky. The last time he forgot was when that whole Reynosa cartel thing went pear-shaped."

"Abigail, stay where you are," Ducky said firmly. "I will come over to pick you up."

This sounded absolutely inviting, but Abby couldn't, in good conscience, give in to temptation and a soothing Scottish brogue when her friends were AWOL.

"No, Ducky! We have to call Vance! We have to help Gibbs and Timmy! And Tony! And Ziva! Something is wrong, Ducky, my gut is telling me that something's wrong, but Vance won't care about guts unless they're bagged and tagged with Palmer making jokes about lunch meat, and-"

Ducky blinked. What?

"Is Mr. Palmer with you over there?" he asked confusedly. "I was quite certain he departed several hours ago for a rendezvous with his charming fiancé, though I don't think he mentioned anything about lunch meats. In fact, I am quite certain he was taking Breena to an Italian eatery that they are both quite partial to."

Now it was Abby's turn to frown in confusion that quickly turned into annoyance. "Ducky! Gibbs. Is. In. Trouble."

At times like these, there was absolutely no reasoning with the Goth, Ducky decided. "I will be over in ten minutes, my dear. Stay where you are."

…

After a brief interlude in which Mr. Simon gloated over a steaming, extra-sugary latte that Adam had picked up from the nearest café, the scientist set back to work, feeling rather pleased with himself. Not only had the first set of tests gone off without a hitch, it was only 4:15 in the morning, which meant that he was ahead of schedule.

And now was when things got…while 'fun' sounded rather unprofessional, a bit unpolished, it was the truth. This was going to be fun.

Technically, the test wasn't really an experiment. It was a bit more like a dogfight. You put a bunch of tense, angry people in a room, sit back, and wait for things to go boom. Of course, Mr. Simon's plan was a bit more elaborate than that. When things went boom, he would be there to analyze everything, down to the very sentence structure of the argument. Because arguments were sure to come.

Agents David and DiNozzo, he knew from countless hours of surveillance, had a bit of a combustible relationship, with tension that edged on explosive in its intensity. While bickering was constant and often rather irritating - Mr. Simon wondered how that Director fellow, the one who seemed to have a toothpick glued to his lip, put up with the ceaseless noise - real fights were more rare and a thousand times more interesting.

His plan had been simple enough. All he had to do was add the metaphorical fuel to the flame and confrontation was sure to come. Combining this with the anxiety of the situation and a healthy dose of painful introspection, and a firework display was in the making that Mr. Simon couldn't wait to watch. It was at moments like these that he considered installing a popcorn maker in the office.

After returning to the main control room, Simon ordered Adam to order the men to return their 'guests' to the holding chamber. Adam rolled his eyes and reached for the intercom button that was not even a foot away from Simon, wondering if this was how mothers felt when dealing with unruly toddlers.

"And now, O'Toole, things get interesting," Simon murmured, rubbing his hands together in classic fictional antagonist fashion, and causing his fingers to pop quite loudly, making him wince. He made a mental note to find other intimidating habits to adapt, that wouldn't cause his joints to pop.

"Yes, doctor. Most interesting." Adam sighed and massaged his temples. He had a monster headache that he suspected was from the caffeine withdrawal. Only a couple hours since he'd had a Caf-Pow, and his head hurt like this? Adam suppressed a groan. This was going to be a looong week.

"Most interesting indeed," Mr. Simon agreed, nodding sagely.

A moment or two later the sector A door opened and the four agents, unconscious once more, were deposited in the empty concrete room.

Mr. Simon smiled and wondered if now was an appropriate time to murmur 'let the show begin.' He'd been struggling with the timing of his intimidating phrases that seemed to come so naturally to some. Agent Gibbs, for example, always seemed to know exactly when to open his mouth and say something cool. Simon, for all his talents, had yet to acquire that gift, though the article he'd looked up on Wikipedia assured him that with practice came perfection. He could only hope.

As the agents began to stir, Grant Simmons strode into the control room. "Let the show begin," he said, with a grin in Emily's direction.

Mr. Simon stamped his foot, only gently, so that his dismay would not cause him to injure himself. He'd always had weak ankles, even as a child, and he would really hate to put a pause on the experiments while he figured out how to use crutches.

"I would thank you to leave the cliché phrases to me, Agent Simmons," Mr. Simon said crisply, still a bit put out at his underling's impeccable timing.

"My apologies, s- er. Doctor." Something about Grant's voice sounded…different. Odd.

Mr. Simon frowned. "Are you coming down with a cold, Mr. Simmons?" He tried not to panic as a terrible thought hit him. Oh goodness. Perhaps Agent Gibbs' spit _had _been the host to some terrible disease. He dove for the bottle of hand sanitizer.

"Me? I don't think so, doctor." Simmons answered automatically, then cursed himself for his foolishness. What kind of idiot didn't take a sick day when it was practically handed to him on a silver platter by his boss? "Why do you ask?"

"Your voice sounds peculiar," Mr. Simon answered, not looking up from his task of vital importance. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat, so as to better scrub his forearms with disinfectant.

Simmons shifted uncomfortably. He'd made a quick detour to the closet where the sound technicians kept spare equipment and unearthed a tape recorder, only to find that Mr. Simon's cruel impression of his voice had been fairly accurate.

Luckily for Grant, just then Agent Gibbs awoke. Mr. Simon sighed and tapped his fingers impatiently as the silver-haired agent began to - surprise, surprise - curse. He would really have to look into that theory of federal agents having a limited vocabulary. Gibbs was certainly reinforcing the hypothesis with his less-than-child-friendly rampage.

Finally, the agent stopped cursing and began to, once again, search the room for any possible escape routes. When it came to nothing, Gibbs knelt beside his agents, giving them a once-over for any new injuries.

"He didn't believe me when I told him that no physical harm had come to his agents," noted Simon amusedly. He chuckled once, then stopped awkwardly when no one else joined in. Clearing his throat, he busied himself with coating his hands in sanitizer once more for good measure.

"Boss?" Agent DiNozzo's voice was bleary and the good-looking agent's eyes struggled to focus.

"Right here, DiNozzo," Gibbs answered calmly, helping the concussed man sit up. "How's your head?"

Seeming slightly more coherent, Agent DiNozzo massaged his temples and leant back against the wall. "It could have done without a privacy breach from some wacko in a lab coat."

"He talked to you, too?" Gibbs asked. Mr. Simon pouted, hurt that such rudeness seemed to be a recognizable description of himself to both agents.

Gibbs fought to keep his tone even. "Ask you anything?"

Agent DiNozzo shook his head, then winced. "I've really got to stop doing that," he moaned. "Sorry, boss. What?"

"Don't apologize," Gibbs returned automatically. "Sign of weakness."

Mr. Simon turned to O'Toole to explain that this pithy saying was one of the agent's infamous rules, only to find his assistant slumped in his chair, snoring lightly. "O'Toole!" Adam started out of his fitful slumber with a snort that would have done a pig proud.

"Sir?"

Mr. Simon sighed heavily and glared at his assistant pointedly.

"I- I mean, doctor!" Adam floundered, struggling to sit up while wiping a string of drool away as discreetly as possible. Behind him, Grant Simmons snickered. Adam made a mental note to 'talk' to the hitman later. Perhaps he would actually do as Mr. Simon had ordered for once, and fire the man.

"Never mind, O'Toole," Mr. Simon sighed with the air of a suffering saint. "It is of no consequence."

Much to Mr. Simon's dissatisfaction, Adam neither apologized, nor made any request for Simon to continue with what he had been going to say. He merely scrubbed forcibly at his bleary eyes and wished for something, anything, with a gram of caffeine…or a job transfer.

Meanwhile, in sector A, the two other agents had awoken, and things were beginning to look interesting. Agent McGee had cast one furtive look of supreme guilt at his co-workers, then had sunk down in a corner and put his head in his hands.

Agent David had taken to pacing the room again, after ensuring the well-being of her colleagues. She seemed serenely unaffected by everything that had come to pass in the interrogation room, but Mr. Simon knew better than to take the pretty Israeli woman at face value. Below the surface, he knew the agent's defenses were crumbling. It would only take a little push to bring all Miss David's pretenses crashing down on her.

The push looked like it might come in the form of one slightly concussed and tautly furious Agent DiNozzo. The man had yet to stand up from where he sat with his back against the wall, but his unfocused green eyes followed his partner as she walked the length of the room with something close to a Gibbs glare.

Gibbs himself provided perhaps the most satisfactory reaction. He stood with his back against the wall, his blue eyes roving his agents with a degree of anxiety that told Mr. Simon he had gotten through to the man.

The agent saw, just as Mr. Simon saw, what was happening. He could see the hopelessness in Agent McGee's guilty eyes, the underlying panic that was coursing through Ziva David's form, the cold-eyed anger of Agent DiNozzo.

And Gibbs knew, just as Mr. Simon knew, that there wasn't anything he could do to stop it.

**Dun, dun, dunnnnnn! So while this chapter does not have an explosive Tiva fight, it does have Abby and everyone's favorite feathered friend. Maybe if I get a whole ton of reviews, the next chapter will have both. (Hint, hint) Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue with the story and end it when I am satisfied. I shall do just that. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry for not updating yesterday. I was writing as fast as I could, but Abby was giving me trouble, and my funny bone seems to have been temporarily fractured. There is very little Mr. Simon ridiculousness in this chapter, but there is both Abby, Ducky, and a Tiva fight, so you'll have to be satisfied.**

**Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them, though I can't promise they will be returned as good as new. Mr. Simon is a bit hard to control.**

Abby was pacing the lab and sucking down her fifteenth Caf-Pow - or was it her sixteenth? - when Ducky arrived. Immediately, she threw herself onto the doctor with enough force to make him go, "Oof!"

"Ducky! Oh my gosh. Did I hurt you? I should have been more careful, I'm sorry. I've been trying so, so hard to use restraint when hugging, but right now I'm really worried, and I think I'm high on Caf-Pow, so restraint is not one of my top priorities, but I guess it should be, 'cause it would have been bad if I'd, like, knocked you out with the force of my hug - how would I do that anyway? - because then I would have been stranded here, and I would have had to call someone else for help, but there isn't anyone else to call, since Gibbs isn't answering."

This last sentence…or rather, the last part of an extremely lengthy run-on that would have her high-school grammar teacher rolling in her grave...though Abby doubted the woman was dead, as she'd been fresh out of college when she'd taught at the high school, and Abby wasn't _that _old, although she was certainly not as young as she used to be...

Regardless, Abby suddenly remembered why she had called in the cavalry in the first place.

"Ducky! I think something is wrong with Gibbs, because he's not answering his cell phone, which is totally hypocritical, even when you factor in Rule 51. Tony and Ziva and McGee aren't answering either, but that isn't totally strange, I guess. Tony and Ziva could just be sleeping or something, but Timmy drank way too much caffeine today to be asleep already, and he always answers my calls. Always, even when he has a date, which I'm sure makes for very awkward explanations with his guests…" _Oh my gosh. Timmy. _

Ducky, who had been glancing about, wondering where Mr. Palmer and his lunch meats had gotten to, was startled by the sudden lapse in what had been a terrifyingly long monologue with little to no time allotted for vital functions such as respiration. He looked up to see that Abigail had collapsed into an office chair and buried her head in her hands.

"My dear, what is the matter?" he ventured, pulling up another chair and sitting down beside the Goth.

"Ducky!" the forensic scientist wailed, raising her head to look at Ducky with suspiciously watery eyes. "I'm worried about my Timmy!"

"Abby," the Scotchman said finally, reaching out to squeeze the young woman's hand comfortingly. "I want you to explain - _slowly_ - exactly why you fear something may have happened to Timothy."

Abby took a deep breath and put her Caf-Pow down. She needed a clear head, and right now caffeine was not a friend. "Gibbs did not come down to say goodnight to me," she said slowly, restraining herself from explaining that Gibbs always, always did this, and he could not have just forgotten, because he was _Gibbs_.

"Continue," Ducky nodded and discreetly dropped the partially emptied Caf-Pow into the trash. Abby did not seem to notice the _thunk_. If she did, she was too distraught to comment. This was somewhat concerning.

"So I called him to, you know, ask him where he was and what could possibly be more important than saying goodnight to his favorite forensic scientist, even though I'm probably the only one he knows." Abby frowned. "Do you think Gibbs would cheat on me like that, Ducky?"

"Of course not, my dear," Dr. Mallard was quick to assure her. "And Jethro did not answer his phone?"

Abby shook her head, setting her pigtails swinging and making her vision blur. _Whoa. _She promised herself that if she made it through the day without foaming at the mouth or going into a caffeine-induced coma , she would cut back on her caffeine intake for a while.

"No," she sniffled, swiping at an obstinate tear that seemed dead-set to start her liberal dose of mascara running. "He had it off. He never has it off, Ducky. And then I tried Timmy's, then Tony's and Ziva's. All off. They know the rules, Ducky. Unless they all decided to rebel - although, why would Gibbs rebel against his own rules is beyond me - something happened to them. I'm sure of it."

Ducky nodded. It seemed that Abigail's theories were not entirely due to caffeine-induced hallucinations. Quickly, he made a decision.

"Why don't we try calling Jethro and the others once more, Abigail, to ensure they are not just preoccupied. If nothing has changed, we will call Director Vance. Though I doubt he will be particularly happy to be awoken at such an hour."

Abby's hands flew to her blood-red mouth. "Oh my gosh, I woke you up, didn't I, Ducky? I'm so sorry," she apologized tearfully. "I wasn't thinking straight. I was just so worried about everybody-"

"You did the right thing, my dear," Ducky assured the young woman kindly. "Though I would advise, next time, to watch the Caf-Pow intake a bit more closely."

Abby glared at one of the many empty Caf-Pow containers littering the room. "Don't worry about me. I think I have officially kicked the habit, Ducky." She cracked her knuckles, relishing the loud sound that accompanied the action. "Now let's go find Gibbs."

…

Ziva David was getting tired.

That was nothing too concerning, of course, considering that she had been pacing for a good half-hour now, and that she hadn't eaten anything since that forkful of fried rice that she had swiped from Tony at lunch the previous day. Even she had her breaking point, after all.

She stopped for a moment to survey the room. Gibbs was alternating between glaring into one of the many cameras imbedded in the wall - perhaps he was trying to Gibbs-glare their captors into letting them go - and casting odd looks around the room. The looks were loaded with something that Ziva could not quite define.

She thought it might be concern, and that worried her. After all, this was _Gibbs_, and the only concern Gibbs ever showed was for his precious cup of coffee.

Ziva herself was not particularly concerned. She'd been in worse, after all. All this man had done was spout some silly nonsense about her vulnerability. A load of crap, and if something in the back of her mind maybe felt otherwise, she was quick to shut it down. Now was not the time to start questioning herself.

As her muscles began to protest the constant movement, she decided to rest for a few moments. It would not do to wear herself out, especially as she had no idea what the day held, whether or not they would be fed or what they might be subjected to.

As McGee looked a bit preoccupied, staring blankly across the room at the white expanse of concrete, and because Ziva was a bit concerned with her partner's concussion, she sat down next to Tony.

…

Up in the observation room, Mr. Simon was getting excited. The tension in sector A was so palpable that it could be felt even in the control room. Agent DiNozzo's green eyes had been following his partner back and forth, back and forth, as she made her rounds.

"Things are about to go boom," Mr. Simon said gleefully, then immediately congratulated himself on his timing. A pat on the back seemed in order, so he administered the approving motion, only to find Adam looking at him oddly. Quickly, Mr. Simon pretended to be merely scratching the back of his neck.

"How is your head?" Agent David asked quietly, sitting down next to Agent DiNozzo. The man jumped slightly, as if he had been too lost in his thoughts to notice that Ziva had joined him.

"Okay," he said after a moment, clearing his throat.

Agent David nodded slowly, scrutinizing her partner's face suspiciously, as if recognizing that something was bothering him, but not quite being able to identify this quality. "That is good," she said slowly. "You took a hard hit."

Agent DiNozzo shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Of course it was a big deal," answered Ziva firmly.

Tony chuckled harshly, without a drop of humor, though Mr. Simon thought he detected a substantial serving of bitter sarcasm. "What's it to you, anyway?"

Ziva looked taken aback. She opened her mouth to answer, closed it again, and studied him for a moment before answering. "You are my partner. I do not like to see my partner hurt."

"Yeah? So was it for _my_ sake that you just _happened_ to forget to mention your ribs."

The Israeli woman blinked and frowned. "My ribs are fine-"

"Like hell they are, Ziva," Agent DiNozzo snarled.

"Here we go," Mr. Simon remarked, sitting back smugly in his chair as what was sure to be the fight of the century commenced.

"Did it just slip your mind," Tony continued, his voice quivering with tight anger, "you just happened to forget to tell us that they busted up your ribs? And that's okay with you? What if one of them had punctured your lung, and you didn't deem it worthy for us to hear. What then, David?"

"He's reverted to last names," noted Simon. "Interesting."

"You are overreacting," Ziva said soothingly. "I am perfectly fine, Tony. You have a concussion. You need to lay back and-"

"I'm concussed, Ziva. I'm not _five_. And, while I appreciate your concern for your _partner_, I can't help but wonder why, if your _partner _is so _important_ to you, you couldn't have the decency to be honest with me in the first place."

"Ouch," Adam muttered, smirking slightly. This, he had to admit, was verging on interesting, which had to be a first in this occupation. It was like watching Real Housewives dissing each other, only this wasn't totally scripted. This was real.

"Tony, I have sustained far worse than bruised ribs," Agent David said stiffly, looking less and less bewildered and more and more defensive.

"Oh, this is perfect!" Mr. Simon cackled. "She is already touchy about her supposed invincibility, and people worrying about her or suggesting she is not capable of taking care of herself will only make her more insecure. To hide her insecurity, she will lash out. And so the fight progresses."

"That doesn't change the fact that you lied to us, to me, about it," hissed DiNozzo angrily.

"I did not lie. I just did not find it significant enough to-"

"What? You didn't think your partner important enough to let him know what the hell is going on with you? Is that it, Ziva?"

"I did not say that," Agent David began angrily. Agent Gibbs looked up suspiciously as the volume of his agent's spat began to increase. Ziva looked around guiltily, then repeated her statement more quietly. "I did not say that, Tony. I-"

"It makes you wonder," he steamrolled right over her recklessly, "about the other lies you've been feeding me all this time. Kinda puts a damper on that whole schpeal you fed me in the bathroom last year. About trust. What happened to having one another's backs, Ziva, huh?"

"Sensitive subject," said Mr. Simon cheerfully. "That aids things significantly. Opening a can of worms that was never completely resolved adds new ammunition to the battle, which will lead to further battering of the feelings."

The Israeli woman flinched, as if physically slapped. "Don't you dare-" she began, then broke off, apparently at a loss for words. "I meant every word I told you then," she hissed finally, having collected herself.

"Yeah? Have things changed since then?" Tony retorted. "'Cause you're not doing a very good job of boosting my confidence."

"Lots of sarcasm," noted 'Doctor' Simon. "Humor has always been his defense mechanism."

"Thrilling, Doctor."

"Shut up, O'Toole."

"Tony," Agent David said urgently, looking him straight in the eye. "I meant every word I said in there, and I still do. You are my partner, and I trust you with my life. Nothing has changed."

With great effort, Agent DiNozzo got to his feet, looking down at his partner coldly.

"Well maybe _I _have, Ziva. Maybe _I've_ changed. Maybe I'm not that gullible idiot who shared his pizza with you in the rain anymore."

Agent David started to stand, wincing slightly as her ribs protested. "Tony-"

"Forget it, Zi."

And as Tony DiNozzo walked away, Mr. Simon laughed aloud.

**Hurray for 12 whole reviews! Can we make it even more this time? I'm a little bit concerned with my Tiva fight. I had fun with it, but I don't know if anybody's out of character. Can I have honest opinions - what did you guys think of it? Thanks to all you awesome people who review so dedicatedly. Love y'all. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Look at me! I'm back on my daily update kick! You have awesome reviewers and delicious Greek yogurt to thank for that. This is definitely a filler. I apologize, but I was totally missing the quirky Mr. Simon humor in the last chapter and I couldn't help but make this chapter all about him. Besides, the Tiva fight needed some psychoanalysis that was not provided in the previous chapter. The next chapter will begin the next round of experimentation - which I'm excited for - plus a little more of our favorite Goth. Review and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: All I've got is a creepy loser of a scientist and a container of really delicious Greek yogurt. **

Mr. Simon continued laughing until the silence of the rest of the room registered in his brain. He was the only one who seemed to find the confrontation amusing. His gleeful grin slipped into a displeased frown. Honestly, what a load of party poopers with no sense of humor whatsoever!

It was at times like these that Mr. Simon was reminded that a genius's life is a hard life, full of people who do not see eye-to-eye with yourself. It was a hard, lonely life . . . but someone had to do it, and Mr. Simon supposed that his magnificent brain made him a prime candidate.

Yet another Marvel comics reference came to mind: _With great power comes great responsibility._

That Agent McGee had really ruined Simon's day with that snide comment. After all, who was going to take him seriously when he couldn't stop thinking about cartoon men in tights, which was certainly not a look Simon was going for. His legs had always been on the bony side, and he knew from that awful year of swim team, when his father had gotten onto the 'turn my son into a man' kick, that Spandex did not do his skeletal appendages any favors.

In fact, that thought was so utterly disturbing that Mr. Simon felt the need to fill the awkward silence in the room before the gruesome image could progress any further in his mind.

"I found that conversation intensely intriguing," he remarked, beaming at the computer monitor with paternal pride. "It went even better than I had been anticipating. For example, while I was sure Agent DiNozzo would be angry, I didn't think it would spiral into a question of trust so easily. Perhaps I'd underestimated the fragility of their relationship. No matter. This was remarkably revealing, don't you agree, O'Toole, Simmons?"

Simmons nodded. Adam's eyes jerked open, his head bobbing up from where it had been resting on his chest. "W-what? Oh. Oh, yes, sir. Yes, doctor. Absolutely. Most intriguing," he babbled. Simon sighed.

"Really, O'Toole, I must ask that you suffer your caffeine withdrawal on your own time. While I appreciate the gesture, I cannot have you sleeping on the job." Mr. Simon smiled at his pun. Everyone else stared blankly.

Simon sighed. Again with the lack of humor? In order to help the joke along, he added, "No pun intended."

Simmons sighed in relief. "Oh, good. For a second I thought you were actually joking…doctor," he added as a hasty afterthought. Mr. Simon frowned and made a mental note to fire Mr. Simmons as soon as the day was done.

"Anyhow," he continued stiffly, "I noticed several important things. One, Agent DiNozzo does not like being lied to. Such is the fragile state of their trust, that his mind immediately jumps from a lie of omission to a question of loyalty. This, of course, was aided and hastened by the information I fed him, regarding our lovely Agent David. He now knows she has lied to him on at least two occasions, and he is beginning to wonder if my evaluation of his partner is correct. Is she really a heartless killer, a person who does her job, no matter what the consequences?

"Second, Agent David is a bit more perturbed by my analysis of her than she let on. You can tell this from how indignant she became upon hearing that DiNozzo was questioning her well-being. She felt her ability to take care of herself was being questioned, so she put up defenses, making herself prickly and irritable, and further aiding the argument."

"Why exactly did we want them to argue?" Emily Schneider ventured tentatively, then blushed scarlet at her own boldness.

Mr. Simon was partially chagrined that his sound tech had the audacity to speak aloud in his presence, and partially grateful for the proof that _someone _was listening, though perhaps not comprehending as well as he had hoped.

"My plans for the team are not finished yet," the 'doctor' explained patiently, as if speaking to a small child or a stupid sound technician. "There are experiments to come which will test their willpower, their perseverance, their strength. These experiments are risky, I suppose, but this team is quite well-equipped to handle high-tension situations. In fact, I felt they were a bit too competent at getting out of things, so I merely removed their advantage. By breaking the team's bond of loyalty, I make it a bit harder for them to cooperate; therefore, I make it a bit harder for them to succeed. You follow, Schneider?"

Emily thought this entire scheme sounded rather mean and perhaps slightly against the law…? She puzzled over this for a moment, wondering if this meant she was participating in something illegal. After a moment she decided that, after all, she was only monitoring video surveillance, and there was certainly nothing illegal about that. Her conscience thus satisfied, she nodded to Dr. Simon and returned to her task of studying her manicure.

"Any further observations, doctor?" Adam asked, trying to sound attentive. He felt a show of interest in whatever the wacko was talking about might ease the dilemma he had gotten himself into. Apparently this was as good a plan as any, because Mr. Simon jumped right in eagerly.

"Actually, yes, O'Toole. The fight between our agents is not yet over, because now Agent David is just as angry as Agent DiNozzo. She feels he is overreacting, being chauvinistic, and suggesting that she is not capable of taking care of herself. His questioning of what she told him after her return from Somalia will only anger her further, and cause her to wonder how much he puts by their partnership. And thus the quarrel continues."

"Brilliant, sir."

"Of course it is, O'Toole. _I_ orchestrated it, didn't I?

"Of course, Doctor."

"On another note," Mr. Simon continued. "Agent McGee is reacting nicely, if not very demonstratively. What is bothering him, the guilt, will fester inside him for a while. He'll probably have a total breakdown once things get particularly challenging. Until then, we get to watch what extreme guilt can do to a man. His body language is hunched, suggesting he does not wish to talk. He feels responsible for the endangerment of his friends, and probably cannot look them in the eye."

"How . . . interesting," Adam said dully. Simon rolled his eyes, then immediately regretted it, as the foreign motion of his eyeballs left him with a dull headache and severe dizziness. Simon was still a bit of a novice when it came to eye-rolling.

"Really, O'Toole. Perhaps you should expand your vocabulary a bit, don't you think? A bit of variation in your expressions of extreme awe and adoration would be nice."

Adam mumbled an apology and did his best not to laugh at the statement's absurdity - how was that for vocabulary, Simon, huh? That his employer actually bought into the less-than popular belief that people worshiped the ground his lab coat brushed was ludicrous beyond belief.

Meanwhile, Mr. Simon continued with his assessment, blissfully unaware of the fact that no one was listening. "Agent Gibbs looks a bit put-out, don't you agree? He realizes that his agents are arguing, and that there is nothing he can do about it. He sees that something has severely affected Agent McGee, but the young man refuses to talk to him about it, no doubt, in an effort to obscure his guilt from his teammates. Agent Gibbs is absolutely powerless. He knows his agents are in danger, and yet the enemy is not one he can shoot with a gun or scare with a glare. He can't fight this particular foe, leaving him completely powerless. All he can do is watch as his agents descend into discord and despair."

Mr. Simon nodded happily to himself, pleased with his choice of words. Discord and despair. It had a nice ring to it. It would be a good chapter title in his book. It was just a shame that he would soon forget about his choice of vocabulary if it was not immediately recorded.

What he needed was a stenographer. Mr. Simon surveyed the room thoughtfully.

Hmm…

"Schneider!" he barked.

Emily Schneider looked up from her scrutiny of a chip in her expensive French manicure anxiously. "Sir?"

"Grab a pad of paper and a pen," Mr. Simon instructed grandly. "You've been promoted."

**Tada! Nothing too exciting, I know, but at least it's something, right? Next chapter I will introduce our new line of experiments - which are sure to be a doozy. Please review. **


	14. Chapter 14

**This chapter - yes, a bit of a filler, but a chapter all the same - is dedicated to LyzzieRocker, who goes out of her way to remind me that I am not perfect, and does it so nicely that I can't even get irritated, and the darling matissek11, who may just be the sweetest reviewer I've ever encountered. Oh, and to all you other fab people out there who take the time to read and review my work. Love y'all.**

**Disclaimer - If it was mine, there wouldn't be anywhere near the amount of obsessed people (like me) writing fanfiction about it, because it probably wouldn't even be on air. I have no pretenses.  
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Leon Vance had not been particularly happy with being summoned to the office at such an early hour, especially after hearing that he was being deprived of blessed sleep for none other than his best frenemy, Leroy Jethro Gibbs. In fact, he had been so totally _un_happy that he'd muttered a few choice words into the telephone that made Doctor Mallard shake his head disapprovingly, if sympathetically. After all, Vance wasn't the only one who would rather be in bed right now.

"I'll be right over," the Director said gruffly, then hung up. Abby, who was sitting at Timothy's desk, spinning around and around in the office chair, fixed Ducky with worried eyes.

"Is he-"

"The Director is on his way," Ducky assured Abby, "though I would suggest obtaining some coffee, as he did not seem particularly pleased at being awoken."

Abby waved this away derisively. What was a cranky Vance when Gibbs' life might be on the line?

"I will go find some coffee," Ducky suggested, seeing that Abigail was not feeling particularly charitable towards Leon at the moment. "Perhaps you could get started on checking their phone lines?"

"Good idea," Abby said, brightening significantly at the prospect of doing something constructive. She'd been getting quite dizzy from spinning, around and around . . . although those cursed Caf-Pows had no doubt played a part. "You go find me something caffeinated, and I will go find Gibbs."

"One step at a time," Ducky cautioned. "Let's not count our chickens before they hatch. After all, there is a good chance that we will not-"

Abby cut the doctor off with a glare that she immediately felt guilty about. After all, this was Ducky - good, sweet, dependable Ducky - who couldn't be blamed for not understanding that there _had _to be something of importance in the phone records, or she could very well explode.

Ducky, however, did not take offense, merely patting her kindly on the shoulder and setting off to find some coffee, leaving Abby to do what she did best.

She turned on Tim's computer, typed in his password, _Gemcity_, and got to work.

…

Mr. Simon was beginning to regret promoting Emily Schneider to his official stenographer for a number of reasons, which he neatly laid out in his head as he made his way to sector C's control room.

1 - Schneider had a particularly irritating habit of clucking her tongue when dotting her I's and when ending her sentences with a period.

2 - Schneider smelled like she'd taken a bath in the fragrance department at the local mall. Mr. Simon's finely tuned nose recognized the scent as _Honeysuckle_ _Fantasy_, which was also available in hand sanitizer. He had stopped purchasing that particular brand, however, as the fragrance made his nose itch intolerably. Even now, Mr. Simon was beginning to feel the need to sneeze.

3 - Schneider was not particularly bright. She seemed to require an explanation for everything Simon said, and had not yet learned to keep her mouth shut and her ears plugged.

4 - Schneider's handwriting was large and loopy, with all sorts of unnecessary flourishes that made the text near illegible, not to mention highly unprofessional. Medical Weekly would certainly not take his brilliant theory seriously when all the I's were dotted with hearts!

Number 5 was the one that really got to Simon, however.

5 - Wherever Schneider went, Grant Simmons followed. Simmons, with his obnoxious remarks and tendency to roll his eyes whenever Simon opened his mouth to speak, was near intolerable on a good day. Now, with his strange, affected new way of speaking, he made Simon's teeth grind so violently that a trip to the dentist was sure to be necessary in days to come . . . and Mr. Simon hated the dentist with something near a phobia. However, phobias were intense, irrational fears, and Mr. Simon thought his fear perfectly rational. There was something truly chilling about that blonde woman with the fake face who told him to 'open wide.' And it wasn't just the abysmal nose job.

So it was pretty safe to say, what with five whole items against her, that Emily Schneider was holding on to her job by a thread, and that Mr. Simon was not in a particularly happy state of mind. That was why he decided to skip procedure and head right for dessert.

This next experiment was one that he was truly proud of, though he couldn't take all the credit. After all, evil villains had been constructing mazes for their specimen to run through since the caveman era. Simon's, however, was a bit more high-tech than most.

The entire second floor of the warehouse had been converted into a labyrinth of corridors, a twisting maze of hallways, filled with dead ends and - at the risk of sounding clichéd - a couple of surprises that Mr. Simon was just itching to break in.

Admittedly, he'd thoroughly tested the maze on one of his more irritating assistants, who had not emerged. Simon had been forced to send in a retrieval team to locate the unfortunate assistant, only to have his retrieval team get lost as well.

Luckily, the retrieval team leader had had the intelligence to contact Simon on his radio and inform him of their 'situation.' Simon had thrown a minor temper tantrum, fired the entire team, then unwillingly instructed the leader on how to get out, 'accidentally' zapping the entire team with one of his booby traps in the process.

After that, Simon had stopped testing the maze. Instead, he'd had someone install security cameras in each corridor, to ensure no one else could get lost. To make sure that he himself did not lose his way, he'd had a map of the labyrinth tattooed on his wrist . . . with henna, of course, so as not to risk contamination of the blood stream.

Mr. Simon could not remember, oddly, if the man who'd installed the cameras had ever found his way out. That would explain why Simon was yet to receive a bill from the man . . . No matter, Simon decided. After all, the cameras _would_ have put a significant dent in his wallet, and there were enough expenses as it was.

O'Toole, Schneider, and Simmons tailed Simon closely as he wove his way through the complicated twists and turns of the maze, eager to ensure that they did not meet the same fate as that poor assistant.

Simon, thinking smugly to himself that his tattoo was rather hard-core, even if it _was_ just henna, finally arrived at the entrance to sector C. He pressed his palm to the scanner on the wall, waited as the machine analyzed the contours of his hand, then stepped through the door that slid open.

Control Room C was almost identical to the other two control rooms. The one difference was that the wall behind Simon's dashboard of buttons was not white concrete, as the others had been, but a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, one-way window instead. The window looked into a small holding chamber where the specimen would be delivered, unconscious once again.

Once he had ensured that all systems were a go, Mr. Simon would open the holding chamber's door, letting the team out into the maze. And then all he had to do was sit back, relax, press the occasional button to keep things from getting dull, and enjoy the show.

**No more updates till Sunday, because I'll be busy all day tomorrow. Sorry!  
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**Leave me an in-depth review, and maybe I'll dedicate a chapter to you! And, hey, look, that rhymed! Um . . .*cannot think a word that rhymes with 'rhymed' that would make sense within the context of this sentence and feels a bit stupid about it* And I call myself a writer...**


	15. Chapter 15

**I know, I know, I know - I'm a terrible person. And I'm sorry, I really am. I promised I'd update yesterday, and I tried, but things didn't go as planned. For starters, I wasn't feeling well all morning. When I finally had the energy to go upstairs and finish writing chapter 15, my mom got on this 'there are only so and so more days until we go back to school, and you have work to do, young lady!' kick, and I had to go do back-to-school work. Then I had a party, and I got home late, and so I honestly just didn't have the time. But I got up early today and wrote this for you as an apology. It's extra long to make up for the delay. Dedicated to Noraque, who reassured me that I am not the only person who still watches Disney movies with his funny review, and to melraemorgan, who broke out some impressive dictionary skills. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. **

**Disclaimer: There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza . . . there's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole . . . **

Emily Schneider was having conscience troubles.

This was a fairly new development, as Emily was not much one for thinking about others. Truth be told, Emily was not much one for _thinking_, squat. And so these moral stirrings were the cause of much concern to the young blonde stenographer.

How was she going to afford a new pair of shoes every weekend if she started feeling guilty about how she'd earned the money in the first place?

Consciences, Emily decided in a rare lucid moment, were not very convenient.

She supposed her new sense of right and wrong could be attributed to the fact that, up until now, she had never had much of an idea of what her employer was doing, or saying. The problem with stenography was that, in order to write things down, you actually had to _listen_ to what the speaker was saying.

She had puzzled out, from a long monologue filled with self-satisfied remarks and occasional reprimands to the employees, Mr. Simon's general plan. And she wasn't sure she liked - or understood, for that matter - it.

Why would anyone want to risk being arrested, just so that they could run tests on federal agents? It was illogical!

This newcomer in the back of her brain, a reasonable voice that she did not particularly like, voiced another question. _Why would someone risk being arrested, just so that they can keep their nails manicured and their wardrobe up to date? _

Yes, Emily was definitely having conscience troubles, and she didn't like it one bit. When she started questioning a life-style filled with luxury and credit-card upgrades, things were going down-hill - _fast_.

…

Mr. Simon watched in pleasure as the four federal agents were deposited in the starting gate, so to speak, unconscious. "They're late," he noted to O'Toole, eyeing his wrist-watch irritably, "by a whole two minutes and . . . fifty-six seconds."

"The nerve," O'Toole deadpanned. Mr. Simon nodded vindictively.

"Fire them at once."

O'Toole doubted that would be necessary, as he wasn't sure the men who had deposited the NCIS team would be able to find their way out. If they, by some chance of fate, _did_ emerge from the maze unscathed, he would be more likely to shake their hand and buy them a drink than fire them. Well, perhaps he would let them buy their own drinks, as Adam was remarkably cheap.

"Will do, sir."

"Good." Mr. Simon turned to study his victims through the mirrored window. "Once they awaken, we can begin the next experiment. O'Toole, you will read this paper out loud over the intercom, so as to explain what is going to happen next to our lovely guests."

Adam studied the sheet of lined paper dubiously. There were a lot of big words in there for a guy who had never even finished high school. "Perhaps you would like to read it, sir?" he suggested boldly.

Simon frowned. "No, perhaps I wouldn't, O'Toole. I abhor the way my voice sounds over the intercom, and I do not wish to sacrifice my dignity in such a way. If you are unwilling, I can always have Mr. Simmons give the speech. His voice can't really get any worse, after all."

Simmons blushed and cleared his throat before saying, in the most normal voice that he could, "If you need me to, sir, I am willing."

"No need," Adam cut in, glaring at Simmons. "I will do it, sir."

Simon didn't have time to answer before he sneezed hugely, the force of the sneeze nearly knocking him off his chair.

"Gesundheit."

"Shut up, O'Toole," Simon said sharply before turning to fix Schneider with his very best Gibbs-glare. "Schneider!" he barked.

Emily didn't look up, merely scrambled to catch up on the conversation, wondering desperately how you spelled 'Gesundheit.' She skipped it, and continued on with the conversation.

"Schneider!"

Again? Emily wrote down her surname again, surprised that it had been invoked in the conversation twice within the same moment.

"Schneider, put down the pen!" Simon screamed. "It is impolite not to look at your superiors when they are speaking to you!"

Emily very nearly wrote this down as well, but Simmons kicked her gently in the leg. "Em, he's talking to you."

She looked up with a guilty start. "I'm sorry, sir," she apologized. "I was trying to keep up with the conversation-"

"Schneider!"

She fixed him with scared, deer-in-the-headlight eyes. "Sir?"

"Don't call me sir!" Simon shrieked, searching for his happy place, only to find it was missing in action. Which meant that meltdown was imminent.

"I-I," Emily stuttered, near tears. "I'm sorry, doctor!"

Immediately, Simon calmed. "If I ever hear you call me 'sir' again, Schneider, you will be unemployed so fast you won't even be able to kiss my feet and beg for forgiveness. Now, as I was saying, the perfume you are wearing is absolutely intolerable. It is irritating my sinuses."

Emily wondered what sinuses were. "I'm so sorry, doctor," she apologized frantically, cursing that spending spree she'd gone on last week in the fragrance department of the mall. "I'll never wear it again."

"See that you don't," Simon directed crisply, reaching for his hand sanitizer to clean off any wayward germs from his sneeze that might have escaped his first disinfecting. "Now, please, continue with your writings, though I ask that you refrain from clucking your tongue while punctuating."

Emily apologized, blinked forcibly to hold back tears, and went back to writing. Mr. Simon went back to ranting.

"Now, this test, O'Toole, Simmons, is to gauge the brainpower of our agents. We are giving them a huge puzzle to solve. The way they go about solving this puzzle will reveal a bit about the way their minds work, how they interpret patterns and such."

"Fascinating," Adam and Simmons said at the same time. Simon sighed and made a mental note to hurry up and buy those thesauruses.

"Not only will it test their brains, it will test their pain tolerance." Mr. Simon gestured towards his panel of buttons slyly. "And, of course, it will give us an insight on the new team dynamic or, perhaps, the lack thereof. We are about to see if my scheme has brought about the desired effects."

Mr. Simon, of course, was fairly confident in his abilities to scheme, and there was not a doubt in his mind that his predictions would be nothing but accurate. Even so, it was good to leave things a bit ambiguous, so that, in the unlikely case that something went wrong, Simon would not lose his opportunity to say 'I told you so.'

In the adjoining room, the agents had all begun to stir. There was a rather unnerving thud as Agent David kicked the door that led to the maze, but thankfully the reinforced steel held. Agent DiNozzo, stiffly ignoring his partner, was checking his teeth in the mirrored window. Mr. Simon was pretty sure that the agent knew it was not a mirror, but a window, and was just being obnoxious on purpose.

"They have moved us," Agent David said, doing a 360° and taking in the smaller compartment.

"No, duh," DiNozzo snapped sarcastically. "That's a neat bit of work there, David. You figure that out yourself?"

Before the female agent could retort, Gibbs cut in. "Hey!"

All heads turned to face the silver-haired leader as he continued. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you guys-"

"Oh, I think he has a pretty good idea," Simon purred with a sly chuckle that his employees did not join in with.

"But you need to get over it right now," Gibbs finished. "We're in the hands of a psychopath, and I need cooperation. Understand?"

Tony and Ziva nodded obediently, though the venomous look they shot at one another suggested they had not exactly taken the reprimand to heart.

"Why do you think they moved us, boss?" Timothy McGee asked, studying his surroundings so as to avoid meeting anyone's eyes for too long.

"I don't know, McGee!" Gibbs snapped exasperatedly. Tim wilted slightly.

"Right. Sorry, boss. Stupid question."

"Hey," Gibbs said again, with a voice that was almost . . . gentle? When McGee didn't look up, he crossed the room, forcing the young man to look him in the face. "Don't apologize. Sign of weakness."

McGee blinked and swallowed, looking away after a couple of seconds, but he did nod, and this seemed to satisfy Gibbs. It certainly satisfied Simon.

"Agent Gibbs is at a loss. He's fighting a losing battle with the inevitable." Mr. Simon nodded, satisfied with his last statement. "Did you get that last sentence down, Schneider?"

"Um . . ." Emily scribbled frantically. "Yes, si- doctor."

"Alright," Mr. Simon motioned O'Toole towards the intercom. "I believe it's time to start the experiment. O'Toole, please, take it away."

Clearing his throat nervously and praying to the dictionary gods for mercy, Adam pressed the intercom and began to read.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

Adam turned to Simon in confusion. It was about 4:30 in the morning, after all! Perhaps there'd been a mix-up with the papers?

Mr. Simon frowned and waved for him to continue. More than a little baffled, Adam did as he was instructed, and resumed reading.

"By now I am sure you have all realized that what I told you in the interrogation room was true. You should be honored, really. You have been chosen as the test subjects of one of the most revolutionary experiments of the century."

Adam swallowed hard and wiped his sweaty forehead, feeling extremely nervous. He'd stumbled his way through the words 'revolutionary' and 'interrogation,' but he wasn't sure his luck would hold out for much longer.

"And now the first set of experiments are over. The results have been absolutely fantastic, just as I'd predicted. Perhaps you see now, agents, that I am not insane, but brilliant."

Agent DiNozzo said something that was not exactly child-friendly, making Simon wince as if he'd been mortally wounded. The man snatched Adam's paper away from him, scribbled something on a hot pink Post-it note, and slid it back to Adam.

"Read that instead," he instructed. Adam looked anxiously down at the nearly illegible handwriting that Mr. Simon had spent hours practicing, perfecting his role as the brilliant doctor. After all, wasn't it a known fact that doctors' handwriting was absolutely horrendous?

"Um . . . Agent DiNozzo, I believe we t-talked about the profanity, among other things, and I would advise you to keep quiet, as I have the means to kill you - or your partner - where you stand."

"I'm sitting!"

Simon, again, snatched away the Post-it, scribbled furiously, and returned it. Adam suppressed a moan. The handwriting was even worse than the first.

"That is ir - ir - irrelevant, Agent DiNozzo. Just keep in mind that I have no qualms about retaliation. Grief is quite revealing of a person's . . . psychosis, after all, and would be in - intriguing to experience."

Qualms? Retaliation? Psychosis? Intriguing? Experience? Adam was suddenly wishing he'd paid more attention in school.

Another Post-it note was handed to him. Adam stared at it in despair until a pointed "Ahem," prompted him to read.

"Now here is the situation. You are standing in the middle of an . . . elaborate . . . labyrinth?"

"Don't say it like it's a question!" Simon hissed, irritated. "You need to sound powerful, authorative." He handed Adam another Post-it, then began writing on another.

"In a moment we will release you from your holding cell, into the depths of the maze," Adam read painstakingly. "If you can solve the puzzle of the maze, then you are to be congratulated. Perhaps even a bit of food would be in order. I'm sure you're all rather hungry, as it is. If you solve the maze in less than a day, perhaps I will even throw in some medical care. I'm sure Agent DiNozzo would appreciate it if you had your ribs checked out, Agent David."

Simon winced as O'Toole mispronounced Agent David's name, saying 'Day-vid,' instead of 'Dah-veed.'

He was beginning to wonder if having Adam read the speech was not such a good idea. Mispronunciation was much more undermining of authority than a scratchy voice. He supposed it was too late to switch places now, so he merely passed Adam another piece of paper.

Inside the holding room, at mention of Ziva's ribs, Agent DiNozzo's face had tightened. Agent David had scowled as the speaker pronounced her name incorrectly. She did not seem much affected by the mention of the touchy situation that had sparked the argument, though she did shoot one quick glance at her partner that Simon found most revealing.

"If you do not cooperate," Adam read slowly, sounding out 'cooperate' as if he were in third grade, "punishment will follow. Perhaps you will be punished, perhaps we will punish one of your teammates in your stead. Whatever I believe will be most effective in making you regret stepping out of line."

Simon handed Adam another sticky note, then put away the pad, satisfied in his speech, even if the delivery was not quite as impressive as he had hoped for.

"I must warn you that the maze is a bit more than twisting corridors. In order to keep things from getting dull, and to further test your reaction to the unexpected, we have placed a few surprises throughout the corridors. Work quickly, and the medical attention you receive as a reward will more than counteract the damage done today."

Adam took the last Post-it note from his boss, anxious to get this over-with. There was a light at the end of the tunnel in close range.

"If you cannot work together sufficiently as a team, adjustments of a kind will be made to better suit my investigation and your progress. Work quickly and be rewarded. If you do not cooperate, I will be forced to act. I am warning you - do not meddle with my experiments, as it makes me quite put-out. Chuckles."

Simon winced. He had written _*chuckles* _on the Post-it note, giving Adam a chance to break out his own version of a menacing laugh, but apparently O'Toole was not as up-to-date on text lingo as he'd like to believe, as he obviously did not know that asterisks on either side of a verb signified an action. Now he just looked stupid.

Seeing only one option, Simon snatched away the microphone and chuckled into it himself. The timing was a bit off, admittedly, as a few seconds of silence had gone by, but it was better than nothing.

"Your time starts now. You have exactly twenty-four hours to complete the maze if you wish to receive medical attention and provisions. On your mark, get set . . ."

Simon reached out and flicked the switch that opened the holding room doors. Slowly, the reinforced steel slid apart, revealing an entrance into a maze of white corridors. Simon chuckled again, and the laughter reverberated throughout the building, echoing in the sparse white emptiness.

"Go."

**So, again, I apologize. I'll try to have the next chapter up by tomorrow. Please review and let me know how you feel about where I'm going with this. Leave a long, in-depth review, and you could get a chapter dedicated to you! Thanks to all! **


	16. Chapter 16

**Woohoo! Look at me! I have updated not one, not two, but _all three _of my multi-chapter fics today! Bow down and kiss my awesome feet! So, this has got Abby doing what she does best, some lovely Tony p.o.v., and Adam's reminiscence on an unfortunate cheese Danish incident. Cool beans. **

**Special thanks to Cactusgirlie, for giving me a pep-talk, and again to matissek11, because she compared me to Suzanne Collins, which kinda blew my mind a little. Oh, and to y'all, because I got 14 reviews on the last chapter, which is a new record!  
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**Disclaimer: What if the hokey pokey _isn't _what it's all about? **

Surprisingly enough, things were going pretty well for once. This was a surprising, though far from unwelcome, change of pace for Abby, whose day had kind of stunk otherwise, what with the whole team-being-missing catastrophe and the caffeine-overload.

Yeah, it was almost creepy how well the whole thing was going. She'd gotten into the phone records and began sifting through the most recent calls, trying to get a rough estimate of when exactly Gibbs and the gang had dropped off the map.

In the past twenty-four hours, there had been a total of seven incoming calls to the office, and twenty-three outgoing.

The outgoing calls were straight-forward enough. Ziva had made a series of calls to the nearby bus stations and airports, as well as to the police stations. Abby could only assume she had been issuing a BOLO on Gibbs' orders.

Then Tony had called a home number that Abby had briefly looked into. It was the home of their most recent victim that he had called, no doubt to question the petty officer's wife on something or other. DiNozzo had also, to nobody's surprise, made calls to two different fast-food places around lunch, and again around dinner.

The incoming calls, for the most part, were just as normal. She herself had called Timmy twice and Gibbs once about the case. Ducky had called Gibbs once and left a message, no doubt because Gibbs' spidey senses had already alerted him to the breakthrough.

Then, of course, there'd been the call from Metro PD early that morning, announcing that a dead petty officer had been found in the restroom of a subway station.

It was the other two calls that had caught Abby's attention. Both were from cell phones, one to Tony and one to Gibbs.

Quickly, Abby plugged Tony's mystery number into the search engine of Tim's computer and waited impatiently for results, which were a bit anti-climactic and not terribly surprising. Tony had gotten a call from a pretty blonde who could not be more than 30, named Ashley Draper.

Although she was fairly certain that she knew why Ashley Draper had called, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with the case, Abby diligently researched the blonde, just in case Tony's theory that it was always the wife/girlfriend proved itself correct.

It looked, however, like Tony would be disappointed once more. Miss Draper had quite a record when it came to drinking and partying, but nothing outstanding. What's more, when Abby called the young woman up, she was informed in cranky tones that Draper had a solid alibi for the entire night laying next to her in bed. So there went that theory.

Next, Abby researched Gibbs' mystery caller. That's when things got particularly exciting. The cell phone was registered to a Mr. Adam O'Toole who, from the looks of his criminal record, was a life-form below even the blonde airheads that Tony dated.

Which was concerning, when you looked at a couple of Tony's most recent dates.

And suddenly Abby was very nervous.

…

"You know what movie this reminds me of?" Agent DiNozzo said suddenly and conversationally. "_Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_, with that whole shifting hedge thing? Yeah, that was pretty creepy. Oh, and _The Shining_? That's another classic-"

"DiNozzo, shut up."

Tony took a deep breath and resisted the urge to start spouting facts about _The Labyrinth_, because he was pretty sure that if he kept his mind busy, he wouldn't freak out about the fact that they'd just been set in the middle of a freaking _maze_, that they were supposed to _solve_.

If this had been a movie, he would have thought it pretty cool, if a bit overdone. Now the only thing that he could think was that he wished he'd paid more attention in those three weeks of Cub Scouts before he'd gotten kicked out. Some navigational skills would be pretty helpful right now.

"So what do we do?" Ziva asked quietly, leaning against the doors of the holding chamber, closed once more, but now with the team on the other side. Gibbs thought for a long second, and Tony tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

_Gibbs didn't know what to do. _

This thought was so crushing, so mind-blowing, that Tony thought he might vomit. Because if _Gibbs_ didn't have an answer, then things were really, truly screwed.

When Gibbs finally _did _answer, it did nothing to lessen the fist of worry that was clenching in Tony's chest. "Your ribs really broken, Ziver?"

Ziva didn't look at Tony when she answered. "I am fine."

And suddenly the knot of worry was overwhelmed with taut fury that Tony couldn't totally contain. He turned away and debated whether putting his fist through the concrete wall would make him feel any better.

"Bull," was Gibbs' response to Ziva's lie. She frowned, looking irritated.

"Gibbs, I am perfectly able-"

"Shut it, Ziva. Any other injuries you've been hiding from us? Anything else you didn't deem worth sharing?"

Ziva looked down at her feet sulkily. "No."

"How many?"

Ziva opened her mouth to protest, but Gibbs shot her a glare that put an end to that. Shooting a guilty look at Tony, she whispered, "At least three."

Tony wondered, through the waves of fury that were pretty much commandeering his brain, what about this bothered him more - that Ziva was hurt, or that it took Gibbs to get Ziva to _admit_ she was hurt. And here he'd thought that she trusted him.

Tony realized, suddenly, that Gibbs was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for a response. "Sorry, boss. What?"

"I said, how's your head, DiNozzo?" Gibbs repeated slowly, an odd look on his face. Tony shrugged. Gibbs sighed. "That's it. Anybody got any idea on how to get out of here?"

"We are going to play along?" Ziva demanded, incredulous. "Gibbs, that is practically asking for trouble! We do not know what is out there-"

"No, we don't," Gibbs agreed calmly. "But if there's a chance we can get you and DiNozzo some medical treatment, I'm taking it. It's better than waiting here for that wackjob."

"But, Gibbs-"

"Hey!" Gibbs barked, returning from his brief lapse into the world of calm rationality. "Last time I checked I was in charge here, Ziva. That change?"

Ziva glowered, eyes looking up resentfully beneath dark lashes. "No."

"Good," Gibbs said crisply. "Now let's go. We've only got twenty-four hours."

…

Mr. Simon let loose with his best cackle of delight. He'd know that Agent Gibbs would be logical. For all his irrational quirks, Gibbs was first and foremost an investigator, a man of fact. Mr. Simon had counted on Agent Gibbs seeing things reasonably. After all, there were only two choices - stay put and starve slowly to death or solve the maze and receive food and medicine. Mr. Simon knew which one he would have chosen.

"Here is the plan, O'Toole," Simon said cheerfully. "We will let them wander for a while, let them catch their bearings without interruption. I am not an unfair man, after all. I am sure someone will come up with a theory. Perhaps Agent McGee. He is bright, though his spirits are a bit low. He may be hesitant to voice an idea. That will be interesting to watch."

"Most definitely, Doctor."

"And then, once they have set on their merry way, we will start the tricks. As things progress, medical attention may become more of a necessity, which will only spur on our intrepid team. It will all be rather exciting."

Adam was a bit dubious about the whole plan, to tell you the truth. For a self-proclaimed genius, Simon sure did miss a lot of gaps in his 'flawless' plans. For example . . .

"Doctor, how exactly are we going to provide medical attention to the team if they make it through in twenty-four hours?" he asked politely, trying not to sound like a know-it-all. Simon had made it perfectly clear that there was only room for one smarty-pants in this joint.

Simon rolled his eyes, then regretted it. He blinked rapidly to remoisten his eyeballs. "Simple, O'Toole. We will contact Dr. Lewis."

Adam was surprised. The last time Dr. Lewis had been required was several years ago, and it had not ended particularly well. In fact, it had ended in Simon instructing Adam to hire a hit team to, erm, _eliminate _Dr. Lewis.

Adam, of course, did not do this because, as much as he disliked Dr. Georgette Lewis, family was family, even if that family was only a second cousin on his step-mother's side. Instead, he had suggested to Georgette that she find a different job and perhaps get her hands on a firearm, in case Simon decided to pursue vengeance himself. Last he had heard, Georgette was the supplier in a shady prescription drug deal going down in Manhattan.

"_Doctor Lewis_?" he repeated. Simon sighed.

"Yes, O'Toole. Lewis, the ugly one with the loud voice and the strawberry-scented shampoo. Your cousin."

Adam sighed. Family affairs were never fun. He'd made it a rule to avoid all family events, as a matter of fact, after that awful confrontation with Uncle Brennan last year about who got the last slice of cheese Danish. It had ended with Adam having a large quantity of cheese Danish ground into the very pores of his skin.

But there was really nothing he could do, and Georgette had been out of town at that time anyway. Perhaps she hadn't heard about the cheese Danish incident.

He could only hope.

**Nothing too, too exciting, except that we have started into the maze of dooooooooooooooom. And I was hungry for cheese Danish, so there you go. Review and I will be happy. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey! Sorry for not updating over the past two days, I was cramming school work that I had insisted on procrastinating about. Plus, I was working on a monster of an angsty Tiva one-shot that I suggest you Tiva fans check out. (shameless plugging, I know.) Next update should be tomorrow or Sunday, then I'm leaving on vacation until next Saturday. Updates might slow down after that, because I'm starting high school and I don't know how much work I'll be getting done. Sorry! I will try!**

**This one's for everyone who's been so dedicated and awesome about reviewing. Love you all!**

**Disclaimer: Is your momma a llama?  
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Leon Vance was _not _in a good mood.

He'd made a point of leaving early today, to catch up on some much-needed sleep, only to be woken at 4 in the morning by a hysterical Goth and a rambling Scottish man, both who seemed to be convinced that something unfortunate had befallen Gibbs.

_Why was it always Gibbs?_

Sometimes Vance thought that Gibbs existed for the sole purpose of driving his authorities crazy. If so, he was pretty sure that Gibbs was going to die happy, having more than succeeded in his endeavors to bring madness upon the world.

When he entered the squad room, he found a frenetic Goth who seemed to be on some sort of caffeine-induced high and a sleepy-looking Doctor Mallard, who immediately made Vance's day by offering the Director a cup of coffee.

"What the hell's going on here?" he demanded the second the caffeine entered his blood stream. He immediately felt that much more awake.

"We are not entirely sure, Director-" Doctor Mallard began, only to be cut off by Miss Sciuto, whose mascara had run in such a way that her face looked like the pelt of a zebra, streaked black and white.

"Gibbs and Timmy and Tony and Ziva are missing, Director. Their phones are off, and I called their houses a gazillion times until I probably overloaded their answering machines, and no one picked up. Plus all their stuff is on their desk, like they didn't pack up to leave, and Gibbs never came down to say goodnight to me - did you know that he always does that? - so I think that there is definitely something hinky going on."

Hinky?

"And do you have any _proof_?" Vance demanded crankily.

Abby deflated slightly. "No. Well, maybe. We're not sure."

"Abigail went through Jethro's phone records, and she noticed that he received a call from a Mr. Adam O'Toole at 9:30 this evening," Ducky explained. "The team hasn't been seen since."

"Adam O'Toole is a bad man," Miss Sciuto cut in vehemently. "He's been involved in everything from arson to . . . well, I can't think of a crime that starts with the letter 'Z,' but you get my point. And he has nothing to do with the investigation, because I determined about half an hour ago who the killer was from the blood samples Ducky sent me. When Gibbs didn't use his spidey senses to come down as soon as I had something for him, I got nervous, so I called him a couple hundred times, and he never picked up. Not once!"

"Contact the phone company, get a written transcript of the conversation," Vance directed. "In the meantime, can you trace O'Toole's cell phone?"

The Goth nodded excitedly, making her pigtails bounce. "Yes, and I already did! He's at Pier 14, and he has been for some time. Maybe Gibbs is there, too!'

"Get the transcript. I'll send some people over to Pier 14." Vance reached for the nearest phone. He had some annoyed federal agents to rouse.

…

Mr. Simon was feeling a bit lonely.

O'Toole had gone off to the opposite corner of the room with Simon's cell phone to call his cousin, Georgette Lewis, and had been murmuring into the phone for quite some while now. Simmons was taking apart his gun and putting it back together casually, no doubt showing off for Emily Schneider, who was visibly flinching every time that Mr. Simon sneezed.

Mr. Simon felt a bit . . . neglected, abandoned by his own employees, who he was paying massive amounts of money to act as sympathetic listeners.

"O'Toole!" he snapped finally, when the loneliness finally got to be too much to bear. Adam put a hand to the speaker of his phone and turned to look at Simon inquiringly.

"Sir?"

"Please wind up the phone call, O'Toole. I have some important developments that I wish to discuss, and talking to myself is not very amusing, although it _is_ sometimes nice to talk to someone intelligent for a change."

Feeling mildly insulted, O'Toole nodded and returned to his call. His cousin was still babbling about her new facial lift, and what an effect it had had on her features, and the remarkably rejuvenating qualities in avocado. She hadn't even realized he'd stopped listening.

"Georgette-"

"-But I told him, I told him, to get away from me immediately, because not only am I an attractive woman, I am trained in martial arts. Did you know I recently began taking karate? I was just talking with my instructor, and he was positively gushing over my remarkably flexibility, but I told him, I told him, that it's all in the avocado. They're miracle fruits, they are-"

"Georgette," Adam tried again.

"They had a simply ravishing sale at the grocery store, and I just filled my cart to the brim with avocados, and the cashier asked me if I was making guacamole, but I told him, I told him, no. I said, they're for my face lift, I said, and she thought that was just hysterical-"

_"Georgette!"_

"Did you say something, Munchkin?"

Adam sighed. Another bad thing about Georgette - besides her tendency to babble incessantly - was her pet names. Last time they'd met she had persisted in calling him 'Cuddles.' Now she had progressed to 'Munchkin.' Fantastic.

"Yes, I have to go now, Georgette, before my boss starts talking to himself. Just be ready to come if I call you. We're not sure whether your services will be needed or not."

"Of course, Poodle-face. Maybe I'll even bring a few avocados for your darling boss. I seem to recall he had atrocious frown wrinkles. I used to have them as well, but recently I went to the dermatologist, and she was just marveling over how they'd disappeared. But I told her, I told her, it's all in the avocado-"

Adam hung up.

…

Simon had been dangerously close to talking to himself when his assistant finally sat back down beside him, rubbing his temples and muttering tiredly about avocados. "It's about time, O'Toole."

"My apologies, doctor," Adam said. "I was talking to my cousin, and she was just babbling on and on about avocados and how they're good for your skin, and-"

"Oh, yes, I read an article on that recently." Simon nodded knowledgeably, reminding himself to renew his subscription to The Ladies' Journal. It was really quite informative.

Adam rolled his eyes. Of course Simon knew about that.

"Is she available?" Simon questioned, wondering if he had time to pick up some avocados on the way home from work tonight. He'd been meaning to do something about those frown-wrinkles for weeks now . . .

"Yes. She will be standing by, in case it's necessary to call her in," Adam answered. Simon nodded and smiled, pleased.

"Does she still use that lovely strawberry-scented shampoo?"

Adam sighed and put his head in his hands. Between his avocado-obsessed cousin and his boss' feminine fragrance fixation, he wasn't sure he was going to make it through the day. "I don't know, sir."

Simon was disappointed. "That's a shame. I'd been meaning to ask her what brand it was, as the fragrance was particularly pleasing. I wouldn't have minded having a bottle or two around the house." The man frowned. "Speaking of fragrances, Schneider, my sinuses are beginning to clog. Please, take a five minute break, go to the ladies' room, and thoroughly cleanse yourself of that awful perfume you have doused yourself so liberally in. I cannot abide it any longer."

Emily jumped to her feet, eager to get away from the creepy man for at least a couple of moments. "Of course, sir. My apologies, sir." She practically shoved her stenography pad at Simmons' and ran out the door.

Straight into the maze.

Simon sighed and shook his head sadly, making a mental note to post an ad on-line, advertising an open stenographer position.

…

They'd been wandering for about twenty minutes, when an idea hit Tim like a ton of bricks. He'd been thinking for a while, wracking his brain for any bits of navigational information he'd learned in Boy Scouts that could be used to the team's benefit. Until now he had been drawing a blank.

Gibbs had plunged into the maze without a second thought, perhaps believing his glare alone would cause the sea of whitewashed concrete to part, like Moses and the Red Sea, giving them an escape route. As nice as that sounded, Tim's hopes weren't comparatively high. Gibbs-glares were scary . . . but they weren't _that _intense.

Ziva and Tony had walked in stony silence, apparently willing to follow Gibbs without complaint. Tim got the feeling the two would do anything right now, if it meant avoiding each other. He didn't know what had happened to them, but there was a stone cold wall of silence, as solid as the concrete, surrounding them, and _it was his fault_.

The logical side of Tim told him that this was ridiculous. So the crazy guy in a lab coat had read his books, and become interested in psychology. Great. If a kid jumped off the couch and broke a leg while pretending to be Superman, it wasn't the comic book writer's fault, was it? He knew he was overreacting, and yet . . .

And yet the guilt was still there, because in some ways it _was _his fault, just like it had been when the crazy stalker-fan went after Abby. He'd exposed his team to a world full of people - good and bad - with his writing, and that could very well put them in danger.

Maybe it was these guilty thoughts that had made him so desperate to find a solution, so desperate to make amends in some way. Either way, he couldn't complain, because with the idea came a sense of purpose, which was sufficient in driving back the guilt for now. It was still there, and sooner or later it would have to be dealt with, but right now he had something else with which to occupy his mind, and it was a relief.

"Boss."

Gibbs turned to face McGee questioningly. He was surprised to see that his young agent was looking back at him confidently, making eye contact pointedly. He had an idea.

"Yeah, Tim?"

Immediately, Gibbs cursed himself for using the man's first name. He slipped into first names only when concerned, and concern was not something he wanted to show right now. Psychopaths, like dogs, could smell fear, and the one they were dealing with seemed remarkably adept at reading into things. He couldn't give the loser in a lab coat the satisfaction of seeing that what he'd said had affected him. He was Gibbs, after all.

McGee didn't answer, merely looking pointedly at one of the many cameras of the corridor, high up in the corner, out of reach. He didn't want whatever he was about to say to be overheard.

Gibbs thought for a minute, then remembered that day a couple of weeks back when he'd walked into the lab to find Tim and Abby conversing in Sign Language, Abby rapidly, Tim more slowly but relatively fluently. Abby had explained that she'd been teaching 'Timmy' how to sign for several weeks now, and that he was catching on fast. It gave Gibbs an idea.

Quickly he flashed Tim the Sign Language equivalent of 'What do you got?' Tim's eyes widened as he caught on. The young man thought for a second, then slowly started signing.

'_I've got a plan.'_

_'That makes one of us,'_ Gibbs signed back

_'Assuming that the maze is rectangular, all we have to do is continue to take the doors on the right until we work our way to the edge of the maze. Then it's a simple matter of following the outer rim of the maze until we find an exit. Right?'_

McGee looked at Gibbs hesitantly, feeling nervous but hopeful. If this didn't go as planned, if he'd made some miscalculation that caused them to miss the opportunity to get some food and medicine, it would be all his fault. He didn't know how much more guilt he could handle.

But that same guilt drove him to take the risk, because if he didn't do _something_, he would never be able to look at himself again, even if they did manage to escape somehow. He needed to make amends, and this was the best he could do.

He only hoped it would be enough.

**Yay! Some McGee time. Next chapter will resolve some of the Tiva tension (for now, at least) and will maybe even bring about a breakthrough in the case. Reviews make me happy!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Whew! I have officially beaten Irene! The rain is pouring down, but my chapter is done, and we still have electricity! I don't know when my next update will be, because we are probably going to lose power, and I don't know when we'll get it back. Plus, my vacation got cancelled, so I don't know what we'll be doing instead. **

**This has got some more guilty McGee, a lovely little Schneider scene, Gibbs at his ingenious best, and a Tiva kinda-resolution, but not really. Good stuff. Abby will be back in the next chapter, I promise.**

**My disclaimer got washed away in the torrential down-pour. We don't miss it.**

Emily Schneider had just made a terrible, horrible, no good, _very bad_ mistake.

Geography had never been her strong point. In fact, she was one of those unfortunate individuals who still got lost in the local mall on the way to the food court. And she was there on a regular basis.

So her chances of getting out of the maze were looking pretty slim. In fact, her chances of getting out were looking anorexic-thin, verging on nonexistent.

She hadn't given it a second thought, so eager was she to escape the wrath of that awful Mr. Simon. She'd just stepped into the maze and started off. It wasn't until she came to one of the hundreds of dead ends that she realized what a pickle she was in.

She'd tried to backtrack and gotten herself even more hopelessly lost. Everywhere she turned there were towering concrete walls, blocking her, boxing her in, closing in on her.

Emily had never considered herself a terribly claustrophobic person until now, but she was beginning to freak. This was so not cool.

She thought she heard voices at one point, arguing, though she had no idea where she was coming from. The huge chamber, filled with twisting passages, had bizarre acoustics that made voices in the distance seem mere inches away. Her own whimpers, which were becoming increasingly panicky, echoed and reverberated like ghosts.

It was enough to send a girl into a nervous breakdown.

Finally, Emily sat down in a corner and threw a little temper tantrum, unaware that one of Simon's many cameras captured the entire hissy fit. She threw her high-heels violently across the hall before immediately going to retrieve them.

After all, maze or not, designer was designer and her shoes deserved better than that.

In a rare spark of inspiration, she checked her phone for signal, but found nothing. Mr. Simon, she remembered, had chosen this warehouse for various reasons - including creepy factor - one of which was that it was located in a dead zone. She got absolutely no service.

Which put her right back where she'd started.

Emily threw herself back onto the floor - after placing her designer shoes, bag, and jacket a safe distance away, of course - and commenced her melt-down.

…

"This is rather embarrassing," Simon remarked lightly, tapping his fingers against his chin in amusement as he watched Emily Schneider - a grown woman, if not a terribly bright one - throw a temper tantrum that would have done a two-year-old proud. "She's not exactly behaving like a professional, now, is she, O'Toole, Simmons? Perhaps it is for the best that she . . . erm, _resigned_. After all, I need suave professionals, not tantrum-prone whippersnappers. Don't you agree?"

Adam nodded, wondering if he could get his hands on a copy of that hissy fit. It could make him millions on that America's Funniest Videos show.

Simmons felt a bit regretful. He hadn't known Schneider all that well, but it was a shame to lose such an attractive blonde so early into the experiment. He hoped the next technician/stenographer would not be anything like the woman Schneider had replaced. He still couldn't get over that lady's mustache . . .

"Now, we should get back to the experiment," Simon announced, transferring screens. The one he pulled up was of the team, who had finally sprung into action with a remarkable sense of purpose.

Agent McGee seemed to have developed some sort of plan, which he'd related to his boss in Sign Language, being careful to block the camera's view of his hands with his body. Which meant that Mr. Simon had no idea what the team was trying to do.

For once, Simon was not ahead of the game, and he did not like it one bit.

"It seems the sense of purpose that his idea gave him has temporarily eased the guilt," Simon remarked cheerfully, trying to appear comfortable. After all, there was no need for his employees to see that he was nervous. It would mar his otherwise flawless reputation as the brilliant mastermind.

"When do we start sabotaging them?" Grant Simmons asked boredly. He'd been keeping an eager eye out for power tools of any kind, but they had yet to emerge. He was a bit disappointed. Simmons was a man of action, after all. Chain saws were so much more entertaining than psychoanalysis.

Simon frowned. "Patience, Simmons. First we must determine how their minds work, how they go about solving things. Then we'll throw a few variables into the equation."

"So how do their minds work?" Simmons prompted, eager to get to the fun stuff. Simon was a bit miffed, thought he was pleased that someone was showing a bit of interest in his line of work.

"Well, Agent McGee's mind has been hard-wired to solve puzzles such as these. His obvious talent with computers made this evident enough. The computer geek inside him looks at everything as a puzzle, and this is no different. He looks at things mathematically, so I can only assume he will go about solving the puzzle in such a way."

"You don't know?"

Simon winced, regretting his phrasing of the last statement. "Of course I know, Simmons. I am all-knowing when it comes to psychology. It was a misstatement."

"Oh."

"Anyhow, Agent Gibbs has a stubborn belief that there is nothing a little intimidation and sheer willpower can't handle. I believe he would have gone on for a while, blindly taking turns, always believing the exit was just around the bend. Of course, eventually the investigator in him would have gotten a hold of his frustration, and he would have stopped to think. In some ways his mind is much like Agent McGee's in that it sees things outside the box. He would have come up with a solution eventually."

All he got in response were a couple of listless nods, but Simon had never needed much in the way of encouragement, so he continued.

"Agent DiNozzo . . . Now, he, for all his antics, is a brilliant field agent. His mind works in a way that no one but a genius but myself could fathom. It jumps from topic to topic at the speed of light. I believe he would just stand still for a couple of moments, until a solution - no doubt one that he recollected from a movie - presented itself. If he was by himself, he would have come up with something. However, I don't think Anthony DiNozzo's head is 100 percent in the game right now. After all, he is concussed and he is no doubt still fuming over his partner's lie of omission."

Sure enough, on screen, DiNozzo seemed perfectly happy to follow his teammates blindly, probably without a knowledge of the plan. No doubt this could be attributed to the substantial concussion, as well as the inner turmoil.

"And Agent David?" Simmons prompted, itching to get his hands dirty. He could practically see the light at the end of the tunnel. Simon thought for a moment.

"You know, I do not know if Agent David would ever have entered the maze at all. I would not put it past her to merely sit down and refuse to take a step further."

"She's suicidal?" Simmons asked, baffled. Simon sighed at the total idiocy of his employees.

"No, Simmons. She is proud. She would want to die on her own terms. She would rather sit and starve slowly to death than be a guinea pig for a higher power. Do you see what I mean?"

"That sounds pretty stupid."

"Yes," Simon agreed, "but brave all the same. Stupidly so, in fact. Sometimes it is smarter to go along with things for a while, if only to give yourself time to gather your wits and form a plan. Gibbs, as an investigator, knows that. That, I believe, is something Miss David has yet to learn."

"Fascinating," O'Toole piped in, feeling uncomfortably that Simmons was showing more attention than himself, which could be a potential threat to his cushy position as the right-hand-man.

"Absolutely," Simmons agreed. O'Toole glared at the man, who ignored him serenely, fixing his attention instead on Simon. "What's next, sir?"

"Next-" Simon began, then broke off as something on screen caught his eye. He quickly turned on the microphones on the agents, and motioned for his employees to be quiet.

"It's a dead end," Tim said tonelessly, staring at the offending wall of white concrete in disbelief. "That doesn't make sense."

"What's not to get about it?" Agent DiNozzo asked, leaning against the wall and massaging his temples, as if in pain.

"He must have anticipated that somebody would think of this," Agent David said slowly.

Simon smiled and gave himself a pat on the back. He had, in fact, anticipated that someone might eventually have a light bulb-moment, and so he had prepared accordingly.

"So now what?"

Agent McGee just looked at the wall, then down at his feet. "I'm sorry, guys," he said quietly. "I should have known that this was a stupid-"

"Tim," Gibbs cut in forcefully. The young man looked up, flinching visibly.

"Boss?"

"It was a good plan," the older man said slowly, enunciating carefully as if to erase any doubt of what it was he had said. "He was one step ahead of us this time. We'll get him next time."

Tim nodded, looking slightly heartened. Gibbs turned away, looking frustrated.

"He knows that his words of encouragement, while usually more than effective in bolstering someone's confidence, are not going to be enough," Simon said gleefully. "It's getting to him."

"Let's get-" Gibbs stopped suddenly and turned to survey his agents sharply. "Everyone sit down," he instructed. "You haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, and I need you to be thinking. You've got half an hour."

"Boss-"

"But, Gibbs!"

"I don't want to hear it," Gibbs said flatly. "I'm going to scout around a little. I'll be back soon."

"Boss, I don't know if that's such a good idea," Tony said, surprisingly coherent. "I mean, unless you've got some breadcrumbs or a GPS-"

Gibbs thought for about three seconds, then pulled off his grey polo, leaving him in his white t-shirt. He used his teeth to tear a small piece of fabric off.

"Got something better than bread crumbs, DiNozzo," he said, winking. "Now get some sleep. I'll be back soon."

"That was a pretty good idea," Simon said grudgingly, frowning. "We'll let him roll with that for now, though eventually we will have to remove such tools."

"We're going to take their clothes?" Simmons smirked, eyeing Agent David with an unmistakable look in his eye.

"Of course not, Simmons," Simon snapped, irritated. Next time he would have to either find specimen who weren't so attractive, or employees who were gay. "I merely meant-" Simon stopped. What _had _he meant? "Oh, never mind."

Simmons smirked and whispered to O'Toole. "Dibs on the chick."

O'Toole did not protest, remembering that this was the same 'chick' who had, at eighteen, killed a dozen men. Simmons could have her.

Simon shook his head and returned to watching the events unfolding within the maze. Schneider was curled in the fetal position in a corner, whimpering like a wounded puppy dog and stroking her Prada purse, as if to console herself.

Agent McGee was flat on his back, staring up at the blank white of the ceiling with unhappy eyes that made Mr. Simon extremely proud of his plan for Agent McGee. It had been so effective!

Agents David and DiNozzo, however, were not sleeping. Agent David was pacing again, violent in her fit of cabin-fever-induced restlessness. Agent DiNozzo was simply leaning against the wall, watching her.

"You should sit down," the good-looking man told his partner finally. "You're going to aggravate your ribs."

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't a challenge. There was no hint of a dig in the words, just genuine concern. Ziva David seemed to note this, because she didn't immediately fly into a self-defensive rage, just stopped and looked at her partner.

"I am not tired."

"But all that moving can't be good for you," Tony pointed out logically. She sighed, then sat down a couple of feet to his left, with her back against the wall.

They sat for a while in total silence.

"They've come to a fork in the road," Simon mused. "They can either hash it out, get to the root of the issue, and talk about it, or they can ignore it, pretend that nothing has happened, and keep going. The latter, while more interesting, is not exactly effective, because all the pent-up issues will eventually become too much, and will crash down."

It seemed as if the partners had decided to make a third option, go trail-blazing, if you will.

"I am not sorry," Ziva said finally, her eyes on the opposite wall. "I have dealt with worse."

"Neither am I," Tony answered. He, too, kept his eyes fixed directly ahead. "I meant every damn thing I said to you."

More silence.

Then Ziva sighed. "We are going to have to talk about this at some point."

He nodded slowly.

"Not now," she added, with a hint of a smile, "because McGee is probably laying awake, storing this away to use in his next book."

Tony smirked. "And Gibbs is probably right around the corner, ready to head-slap us both into next week."

"When we get out of here?" she offered.

"You make dinner."

"You will bring the wine."

"Bring your own wine!"

"Then you may make your own dinner," she shot back. He thought about this for a long second.

"We could eat out."

"That sounds alright," she agreed.

"Friday night, about seven?"

"Sounds good."

"Your treat," they said in unison.

**I can still get reviews on my phone, even if we do lose power, so don't hesitate to let me know what you think! Thanks!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Before you all take your torches and pitchforks to me, let me explain. In other words, let me blame the electricity people who have better things to do with their time then restore electricity to aspiring authors with no lives outside of fanfiction. If it helps you forgive me, I suffered. No TV, no internet - it was like the stone age! But I'm back. So here you go.**

**Disclaimed with a cherry on top. **

Director Vance eyed dubiously the rather disheveled cluster of agents who stood in a ragged line before him. If this was NCIS's finest . . . well, then he'd better start writing condolence letters.

Doctor Mallard was playing the benevolent angel in mismatched socks, handing out coffees and donuts and generally brightening the atmosphere with kindly and humorous, if long-winded, remarks about anything and everything.

If Doctor Mallard was a ray of sunshine, Abby was just as surely playing the weepy rainclouds, hunched up in Tim's office chair with mascara dripping like teardrops down her face and onto her lab coat. She was consuming coffee at an astonishing rate.

As Vance finished up his briefing, he studied the agents he had called in. All were bleary-eyed and tussle-haired, in varied degrees of consciousness. "Does everyone understand?"

There were a series of slow nods, perhaps of understanding, perhaps of sleepiness. Only one agent, Leigh Ann Marcy, a fairly young woman recently transferred to NCIS from Homeland Security, raised a hand.

At Vance's nod, she spoke. "Do we believe this abduction to be related at all to the undergoing investigation of Petty Officer Morrison's murder?"

Thankful for some sign of common sense, Vance answered. "No. It is a possibility, of course, but Miss Sciuto is most adamant that her incriminating evidence is valid."

Agent Leigh Ann Marcy nodded. "Do we have a motive? Has Mr. O'Toole been involved with NCIS before?"

"Not that we know of," Vance answered. "Now, I'm dispatching you field agents to investigate Pier 14. Techs, you're with Miss Sciuto. We're trying to get a transcript of the conversation conducted with Agent Gibbs."

The teams hurried to gather gear, stuffing donuts into their mouths and chugging coffee like it was going out of style. Vance eyed a particularly gruesome specimen, complete with donut crumbs on his unshaven jaw and coffee stains on a button-down shirt that looked as if it had been dug from the bottom of a hamper, and he silently wished Leroy Jethro Gibbs luck.

It looked like they were going to need it.

...

Gibbs was worried.

This was a problem, because worry was not a feeling Gibbs often experienced. While he was certainly not the super-human hero that Abby purported him to be, Gibbs had more than a normal share of bravery on his side. Anxiety was not something he usually allowed himself to feel.

Now, however, it didn't matter whether he 'allowed' himself. The truth was that Leroy Jethro Gibbs was getting nervous. And he didn't like it.

This, however, wasn't entirely a bad thing. You see, when Leroy Jethro Gibbs got worried, he got angry. And an angry Gibbs was a truly terrifying thing, no matter how brave or smart you were.

Emily Schneider, for example, took one look at the silver-haired man with the cold blue eyes and the unshaven jaw, and lost it. Of course, she'd been losing it for over half an hour now. But this tantrum ranked on a whole new Richter scale.

Gibbs was stunned. He'd been making his winding, brain-exhausting way for a good twenty minutes, and the sudden lapse out of silence temporarily froze his senses. The grown woman, well-dressed and attractive, laying on the ground, sobbing and kicking her socked feet, sounded exactly like Kelly had as a toddler. Of course, that was just about the only resemblance, but to the emotionally-drained man, it struck a chord.

And Leroy Jethro Gibbs felt another strange emotion.

Sympathy.

…

"What is he doing?" Simon demanded, stamping his foot violently, then whimpering. In his anger, he had forgotten his weak ankles. He could already feel his joints swelling.

"Is it just me and my caffeine withdrawal, or is he . . . being nice?" Adam questioned slowly, totally and utterly dumb-founded.

Simon was at a loss for words. On screen, the three younger agents were asleep, sprawled uncomfortably on the lumpy white concrete. On another screen, Emily Schneider was sobbing like a lunatic while Leroy Jethro Gibbs, who struck fear in the hearts of jaded murderers and petty criminals alike, comforted the young woman.

Finally, Simon's brain supplied an answer that actually made quite a bit of sense. "He thinks she knows how to get out of here," he explained. "He's pretending to be nice, so as to win her trust. Too bad Schneider was always one feather short of a whole duck."

Simmons snorted. "That's a new one."

Simon beamed. "Yes, it is, actually. I thought it up yesterday evening, over a glass of white wine. You'd be surprised what brilliance your mind can produce under the influence of a bit of alcohol. In fact, I always carry a notebook and a couple of mechanical pencils with me when I am planning on indulging in a glass of Chardonnay."

Simmons suppressed his second snort admirably, raising his eyebrows at O'Toole over Simon's head to further express his disbelief. O'Toole merely shrugged in response. Nothing surprised him anymore, honestly.

"Anyhow," Simon said calmly, totally unaware of what was going on around him, "I found that conversation between Agents David and DiNozzo most enlightening. They see that the twisted mess that is their relationship is beginning to interfere with their jobs, and they acknowledge that they must do something about it before it endangers their lives" - Simon smirked - "which it very well could. Thus they realize they must talk about it. And yet they are not willing to admit that they are wrong. And so they compromise. They call a truce. Quite ingenious, actually, though I anticipated it, of course."

"Of course," Adam echoed. Simon frowned.

"Was that sarcastic, O'Toole."

Adam had to think about that for a second. Had it been sarcasm? He didn't even know anymore. "Of course not, sir," he said finally, for the sake of his job and his waning sanity, "I have complete confidence in your abilities."

"As you should, O'Toole," Simon said happily. "Now let us see what has befallen our unfortunate friend Schneider, shall we?"

…

Emily Schneider was terrified out of her mind. She'd been minding her own business in a secluded corner when along came the steely-eyed stranger that Simon had been psycho-analyzing all day. And the scary man was being nice to her!

She felt a bit guilty. Here she'd been assisting in a plot to destroy these people, and now the silver-haired victim was helping her. It was like The Good Samaritan, or something!

So, yeah, Emily felt kinda awkward about the whole situation, but that didn't mean she was going to turn down a helping hand when it was offered at such an opportune moment. So she gathered herself mentally, pulled on her heels, shouldered her purse, and tripped along after the scary man, who'd introduced himself briefly as Gibbs.

"Take the heels off," Gibbs instructed after a moment. Emily stopped in her tracks, horrified at such a suggestion.

"But they're designer."

"I need to get back to my team," Gibbs said in exasperation. "You're slowing me up. You want to stay?"

Emily nodded furiously. Apparently there _were_ things in the world more important than footwear, and she had just discovered one. Leaving her shoes directly underneath a security camera, where she'd be sure to find them later - if there was a later - she ran after Agent Gibbs in her socks.

"You work for this maniac?" Gibbs asked after a couple of minutes of silence. Emily blushed.

"I-"

"You know how to get out of here?" Gibbs continued, nodding to show that he understood what Emily had been too ashamed to admit.

The blonde ex-stenographer shook her head and sniffled. "No. I went to go wash off my perfume, because Mr. Simon's sinuses were inflamed, or something, but I forgot we were in a maze, 'cause I was so upset, and then I get lost, and-"

Gibbs sighed. "Okay. So you're lost, too?"

Emily whimpered, nodded, and wished she hadn't left her shoes behind. She needed a little comfort right now.

Gibbs stooped to retrieve another scrap of pale blue fabric and stuffed it into the pocket of his pants. "You know of anywhere where there aren't cameras everywhere?"

"No. I don't really know much, sir," Emily faltered. "I'm just the sound technician. I mean, I was the sound technician until Mr. Simon decided he wanted to be an author and then I became the stenographer, which means that-"

Gibbs held up a hand to silence her. "I know what it means. So what _can _you tell me?"

Emily thought for a second, blinking frequently as she always did when mentally taxed. "Um . . ."

The silver-haired man sighed, and Emily tried to think faster. She didn't want to lose her only chance of getting out of here alive. She was blinking so fast she could barely see straight. When she stumbled into the man as he stopped short to retrieve another piece of fabric, Gibbs took pity on her.

"Who're you working for?"

Emily sighed in relief. This much, she knew.

"His name is Mr. Simon. I don't know if Simon is his first name or his last name or even his name at all, but he calls himself Doctor Simon, and you're not supposed to call him 'sir.'"

"Why did he bring us here?" the agent asked, shoving another scrap of fabric into his pocket. Emily considered. This was a bit harder, but thanks to her new position as stenographer, she had been forced to listen to everything Simon said. Even if she didn't understand his goals, she knew what they were.

"It's pretty weird. He's kind of a weird guy, you know. But I think he wants to, like, find out how you and your team work. Like, psychology and stuff?"

Gibbs suddenly looked angry, so Emily thought faster, trying to figure out if she'd said something offensive.

"Um . . . he told Agent McGee that it was his fault," she offered frantically, trying to supply information and placate her irritable rescuer.

The silver-haired agent frowned.

"What was Tim's fault?"

Emily shrugged. "Um . . . like, you know-"

"No, I don't know," came the dry reply. "Explain."

"Everything," she guessed anxiously. While this did not seem to make her savior any happier, she got the feeling the anger wasn't all directed at her, which was a nice change.

"What else does he have planned?" Agent Gibbs demanded, walking faster now. Emily had to trot to keep up, her purse banging against her hip each time they took a sharp turn.

"I-"

But she didn't get a chance to answer, because just then Mr. Simon launched the first of his 'surprises.'

And everything went black.

**So I got an anonymous review today that kinda left me a little bit crushed. Like, a whole lot crushed. I can accept that some people don't like my work . . . but being called 'boring' and having someone tell me to stop trying to be 'clever' hurt. Like, a lot. So, while I ask for constructive criticism, I ask that you inform me nicely, and maybe leave a pen-name so I can respond, asking for suggestions on how to improve. People, keep in mind that I can't even drive yet. Jeez. **

** So again - what do you think? Anyone else feel that my work is 'boring?' Let me know so I can work to improve it. That's why I post my stuff. Just do it nicely, ok? And for those of you who do enjoy my stuff, could you take the time to let an aspiring author with bruised feelings know? Seriously, people, I need a little love today. Thanks!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Wowy, wow, wow, wow! My self-esteem is through the roof! Thanks to some incredible feedback (most reviews on a chapter ever!) I'm thoroughly over my brief departure into the world of self-doubt. I love you guys. Go eat some dessert, my treat!**

**Disclaimer - If a tree falls in the forest, and it conveniently lands on those meanyheads who refuse to give me ownership rights, do I get NCIS?**

Abby had never been very good at waiting. Even as a child, during those long nights hidden behind the couch, waiting for Santa to make his appearance, she'd had one of the shortest attention spans of anyone she knew. Her father used to joke that she was part squirrel. Abby had never really taken offense. She'd always kinda liked squirrels.

The only time she could really, truly focus on something was when she was working on something. That was why forensics had, really, been the only job for her. It grounded her.

Now, however, her precious forensics were failing her. She had nothing, except a GPS location on a suspicious cell phone, and a cryptic conversation between Gibbs and Mr. O'Toole, an unsavory character if she'd ever seen one.

It went something like this:

_Yeah. Gibbs. _

Obviously, that was Gibbs.

_I believe we have some information regarding a person of interest in your case._

That, Abby assumed, was O'Toole. She was rather disappointed at how normal he sounded. He even stumbled over the larger words, such as 'information' and 'regarding.'

_Who is this?_

_No one of any si-signifigance. I believe you will find your suspect has taken up some unsavory dealings in his spare time. Tonight, Pier 14. Be there._

And then the phone line had gone dead, leaving most likely a disgruntled Gibbs and a baffled Abby. Her evidence had made it clear who the killer was, and Vance had sent someone out to take that person into custody, just in case the abduction was involved with the case.

So either that meant she was wrong, a thought Abby did not like entertaining, or there was something else going on here. Had somebody set up Gibbs?

This was a thought that Abby liked even less, but it was one that had to be considered. She'd handed a copy of the conversation to Vance. He'd scanned it, eyes narrow, and sent in a team of forensic analysts to scrub Pier 14 for evidence. He'd suggested that Abby stay behind, in case anything new came in.

Abby was pretty sure Vance was not as much concerned with her, but of what people would think if they saw her in her current state - face striped with runny makeup, eyes red, pigtails sagging. She hadn't voiced a complaint, however, just snuggled down in Timmy's chair, which smelled both heart-breakingly and reassuringly of him, to wait.

She was getting sick of waiting.

The clock on the wall ticked slooooowly, and Abby wondered if that was the result of one of Tony's pranks. Maybe he'd done that to get Ziva's attention or something? Or maybe she was still on her Caf-Pow high. Or maybe . . .

Somewhere between maybes, Abigail Sciuto fell asleep.

…

Mr. Simon was feeling pressured, and he didn't like it one bit.

The truth was that he, Mr. Simon, had made a mistake.

The thought was inconceivable, and yet it was true. He had made a blunder, and now there was a situation that would have to be dealt with quickly. Very quickly.

Things could have been worse, Mr. Simon supposed. If it had been O'Toole, for example, who'd been rescued by Gibbs, Simon would have already skipped out of her with a fake identity and a suitcase full of lab coats and hand sanitizer. Luckily, Schneider was an idiot. She knew almost nothing. But what she did know, she was relating to Agent Gibbs as they made their way back to the dead end where the other agents were sleeping.

Knowledge, Simon knew, was power. If you knew more than your adversary, you had an advantage far beyond firepower or money or the sheer intimidation that Agent Gibbs possessed. While Simon knew more than his specimen, he had power over them.

But now his power was depleting rapidly, with each word that Schneider related between pitiful sniffs and whimpers. He had no choice but to strike.

So he did.

Trying to keep his cool, so as not to alert Simmons and O'Toole to the predicament, Simon smirked and leaned towards the panel of delightfully shiny buttons that he kept dusted meticulously, lest a single speck of dust detract from their glory. "Let's start with our experiments, shall we?" He smiled and tried not to look harried.

Simmons clapped his hands eagerly. "Yes! Let's go bust some heads, doctor!"

Simon sighed. "Please, try to keep your Neanderthal excitement to yourself, Simmons. This is a science experiment, not a college wrestling match."

Simmons blinked. Simon knew about his almost-wrestling career? Maybe he _was _watching Simmons' apartment after all . . . Simmons wondered if Simon knew about the bookshelf full of home videos, taken at various work festivities, cataloguing Simon's nonexistent social skills.

"Anyhow," Simon continued crisply, "let us begin."

And, feeling like that boy with the shaggy hair in Star Wars, who shot the bomb into the rather conveniently positioned hole, Simon pressed the button, sending the entire maze into darkness.

Emily Schneider screamed.

Simon spared the time to roll his eyes at his former-employee's childish disposition and wonder what had ever possessed him to hire such a flighty young thing to be his stenographer. It had been an err in judgment on his part, but he had dealt with it rather nicely, if accidentally.

Then he pressed the really exciting button, a centrally located circle, colored a cliché red because Simon hadn't been able to resist.

Slowly, inside the maze, things began moving.

Simmons let out a little noise that would have been a whimper if his voice had not been so deep. It came out more like a burp.

Simon shot his employee a scathing look. The man gulped. "Excuse me. But what the heck is going on down there?"

"I invested in some special effects," Simon said simply, relishing how cool he must have sounded when he made that statement. Simmons blinked, waiting for more.

"There are sliding panels inside the walls," Adam explained after a moment of awkward silence, seeing that Simon had no intent on explaining things further, "kind of like sliding doors at a super market, only made of concrete. They open or close once every five minutes, and the whole maze gets rearranged."

Simmons thought that sounded a bit like cheating . . . but he had never really had a problem with that. He liked to win, and it didn't matter if the methods used were legal or not, if it meant that he got something shiny to show off to the ladies. He nodded, somewhat impressed, if a bit confused, and settled in to watch the madness.

…

A strange rumbling noise, a bit like the sound of someone shifting heavy furniture on a wooden floor, woke Tim McGee from the restless slumber he had fallen into. He looked up just in time to see what looked to be a solid wall of concrete bang into place, turning what had once been an entrance into yet another dead end.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes to ensure that he wasn't dreaming, and looked around. A couple of feet away, Tony and Ziva were slumped against the wall, asleep. Ziva was snoring, her head resting on Tony's shoulder.

Tim wondered if that meant they had made up. He hoped so. He'd done enough damage, and his friends' non-relationship had been screwed up enough as it was. It didn't need him blundering things even further.

The chamber itself was virtually unchanged, still a large, empty concrete box, only now the entrance they had used was gone, and the dead end that had proved Tim's theory wrong had disappeared. In its place was a new door!

If Tony had been awake, Tim was sure he would have made some reference to the ever-changing labyrinth in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. _In fact, he would almost welcome the irritating commentary, because it would have made things seem a bit more normal.

_Face it, Tim, _he thought to himself with a wry smirk, _you're in the middle of a maze, which apparently moves around when you're not looking. This is about as far from normal as you're gonna get._

After that lovely bit of reassurance from the snide voice in the back of his head, McGee was only more nervous. But something had to be done. Perhaps his theory about finding the edge of the maze would work after all.

Pulling a Gibbs while trying not to wonder how their silver-haired leader would get back into the room now that the entrance was gone, Tim pulled off his own shirt and tore off a bit of the hemline with his teeth. Then he dug in his pocket and pulled out a ballpoint pen.

Drawing an arrow on the floor pointing to the new door in the wall, in case Tony and Ziva woke up while he was gone, Tim hesitantly started off into the maze, which was much darker than it had been before. He pulled out the penlight on his key ring, and slowly began edging his way down the tunnel.

He came to another white room with a door in each wall. He could go forward, backwards, right or left. Tim hesitated, then plunged down the right corridor, stopping only to notate his path on the wall with the pen. In a spark of inspiration, he quickly began to scribble his route down on his palm, drawing a brief map of all that he had encountered so far.

Feeling for the first time like he was actually making a bit of progress, McGee continued into the darkness, armed only with a hand-drawn map and a ballpoint pen.

Behind him, the walls slowly began to shift again.

**Gibbs! Timmy! The team's been split up! Oh, I love Mr. Simon's awesome devious mind. It's so similar to my own! So, anyway, I've got a couple of bones to pick with y'all today.**

**First of all, I apologize if I sounded like a whiney baby in my last chapter. I posted the author's note in the heat of the moment, right after I got the review, when I hadn't had time to cool down. That wasn't a good idea. I don't expect everyone to love what I write, and I'm sorry if that's how it came across. Thanks to everyone who wrote all that fabulous stuff, calming me down. **

**Secondly, my updates might start slowing down after this, because I'm going back to school. What with homework and lovely stuff like an actual life, I don't know what my schedule will be like. I promise I'll try to post as often as I can. Reviews might persuade me to update faster! :-)**

**Lastly, this is my 20th chapter, which is pretty much a landmark, so I'm going to ask you to humor me and answer one or all of the following. I want to know - which chapter was your favorite? Which OC do you like best? What's your favorite Simon quote? What about least favorites? What don't you like and what can I do to improve it? (Just tell me nicely, please)**

**Thanks to everyone who's read so dedicatedly from day one. You guys totally rock!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Since I don't know when I'll be updating next, what with school and stuff, this one is extra long to make up for it. Thanks again to all you reviewers!**

**Disclaimer - aioehoi;haeio;gh;aiegh;wohdkigakgakghkgkadgkal;dgh;a**

The sound of a phone ringing repeatedly jolted Abby out of a restless sleep, and nearly out of her chair as well. Only her good reflexes prevented her from toppling onto the floor of the bullpen as she dove for the phone.

Vance's own reflexes, however, proved a bit better. He snatched up the phone before Abby had even managed to stand. "Vance," he snapped into the phone.

Abby bit her lip and began bouncing up and down on her seat as her stomach did flip-flops that would have put a gymnast to shame. She wasn't sure if she was excited or nervous or just plain high on caffeine, but there was no way she could wait for Vance to hang up.

She jabbed the speaker phone button on Tim's receiver just in time to hear Leigh Ann Marcy say, "-left a note."

Vance shot her a dirty look and turned off speaker phone. Abby shot him a pitiful puppy-dog look. He turned away to continue the conversation. Abby's stomach did another series of back handsprings as she weighed her priorities.

She could wait another agonizing twenty seconds for Vance to wrap up his phone call, then get all the details, or she could risk her job and get answers immediately.

The choice was obvious.

Abby jabbed the speaker phone button again.

"-forensics are going over the scene now," Marcy was saying. "There's something that could be blood, and there's some tire tracks a couple hundred yards down, but we're not sure if they're-"

Abby squeaked in protest as Vance turned off speaker phone. Vance glared at her, and walked as far away from Timmy's desk as he could, stretching the curly phone cord until it was nearly straight.

Abby pulled her best Bambii eyes, but Vance resisted valiantly. "I want you to question anyone nearby," Vance barked into the phone. "Access surveillance. And have someone call in another team of forensics. Contact the FBI if you have to."

Abby took advantage of the distraction to jab speaker phone again.

"-overreacting just a tad, sir?"

"Not from the sound of that note, Marcy," Vance responded sharply. "Now get off the phone and start working or I'll have your butt shipped back to Homeland Security."

"Yes, sir."

Vance hung up violently, turning to glare at Abby. She smiled guiltily and hung up the speakerphone.

…

Mr. Simon was pleased with the way things were going. He had wanted, of course, to separate the team eventually, but he hadn't anticipated that it would be quite this easy.

"Yes, I anticipated it would be as simple as this," Simon said cheerfully. "You see, Agent Gibbs is under the foolish delusion that he is stronger than the average bear. He saw that his team needed rest, but he felt he could handle more. He went on ahead, and thus is cut off from his agents."

"With Schneider," O'Toole added, shuddering a bit. He'd never particularly liked the silly blond sound tech-slash-stenographer.

"Yes, indeed," Simon agreed. "I do hope his own sinuses are not as delicate as my own, or he might contaminate my maze with his sneezing."

"The horror," Simmons said dully. Simon fervently nodded his sincere agreement.

"Perhaps I'll call in a cleaning crew after this whole ordeal is done, and we'll thoroughly decontaminate."

"That sounds like a good solution," O'Toole remarked, trying to sound sincere. He was feeling suspiciously like the third-wheel, and he didn't like it. He, Adam, was the right-hand-man, not that arrogant Neanderthal Simmons!

"Thank you, O'Toole." Simon smirked. "And, you see, Agent McGee was so intent on righting his supposed wrongs that he ventured into the maze without doing necessary research. He didn't stop to think that if the door opened, it could just as easily close again. And now he is isolated.

"And that leaves our two unfortunate partners," Simon concluded with a wicked grin. "I believe we will let them proceed together for a while, to see if they can truly put aside their differences for the time being. If they do get along, we can split them up, but I would rather keep them together if they argue. It's so much more interesting that way."

"Are the moving walls our only 'surprise?'" Simmons asked. He hoped they had a bit more in store than some shifting doorways. Sure, that was creepy and all, but he'd had something a bit more gory in mind when he took this job.

"Of course not!" Simon was offended by his employee's lack of faith in his creativity. "That is only the tip of the fateful iceberg, Simmons! There is more, much more, to come!"

Satisfied, though a bit impatient, Simmons sat back in his seat. "Like what?"

Simon was astounded. "You do not question the brilliance of your leader!" he snapped indignantly. "You are here to watch in awe, perhaps even grovel at my feet occasionally, but nothing more! I do the questioning here, Simmons! You do the dirty work!"

"Yeah, Simmons," O'Toole piped in, smirking. "You're not the brains in this department. Never have been, never will be."

"Nicely put, O'Toole." Simon nodded his approval. Adam grinned.

"Thank you, sir."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, ready to go back into bored disinterest mode. He'd shown enough enthusiasm to last him another couple of months here. After that his car would be paid for in full, and he could get out of here and do something productive with his life. Like, be the villain, not the sidekick.

He'd be much nicer to his henchman, he decided, as Simon began to rant about something else.

…

Gibbs had been through a lot in his life - the death of both his biological and work family, hostage situations, gunfights, and ugly divorces. He'd been beaten and battered with everything from bullets and knives to words and golf clubs. He'd worked with eccentrics like Mike Franks and Abby, and over time he'd developed an enduring, saint-like patience.

Now, however, that patience was being tried on a whole new level. Gibbs was beginning to regret his brief bout of compassion that led to the rescue of one Emily Schneider.

This was due, of course, to the aforementioned Emily Schneider, who made Abby look like Miss Conformity. She'd sniffled like a tearful toddler with the flu nonstop since Gibbs had come upon her, weeping dramatically in her corner. She was now discoursing tearfully with Gibbs about what a jerk her boss was, and how he had a strange fixation with scent, but for some reason could not abide her own favorite perfume. Gibbs had stopped listening as soon as she rambled on into the world of cosmetics.

He had more important things to worry about than what 'Mr. Simon' thought of Emily's sparkly bubblegum-scented lip balm. Namely, the fact that the walls of the maze were shifting, closing off the passages he'd used before, and thoroughly confusing him. He had no idea where his next scrap of fabric had gotten to.

Basically, Leroy Jethro Gibbs was lost, with just about the worst traveling companion the world had ever seen.

"Did you know about this?" he demanded, whirling to face Emily as a door of solid concrete shifted into place before they could step through it. She fixed him with innocent, tear-stained eyes.

"Know about what?"

_God help him, of all the people he'd had to take pity on . . . _

"The shifting walls!" he said in exasperation. She looked at him, eyes wide and confused, lips parted slightly.

"_What_ about the walls?"

Gibbs had to forcibly restrain himself from bashing his head against the nearest wall of concrete. "Look," he said finally, doing his best to be patient, "I need to know exactly what your boss had planned for me and my agents."

"I thought we were going to wait until we got to your agents before I talked about it," Emily reminded him. Gibbs sighed.

"Well there's a bit of a problem with that. So talk. What did he have planned?"

Emily just looked at him. "_I_ don't know," she said finally. "He talked about what was going on now, not what he was planning on doing. I don't even know if he had a plan, or if he was just doing stuff to you when he got mad."

Gibbs took a deep breath. "Well now we've got to find a new route back to my agents." He looked down at what had once been his polo shirt. It was now nothing more than a ragged piece of pale blue fabric. There wouldn't be enough fabric to make it all the way back to his people.

Just then, Emily's purse caught his attention, the tiny beam of his penlight glistening on the sequined surface.

Hmmm…

…

"Tony!"

Tony shifted uncomfortably. He briefly opened his eyes, then immediately closed them again as his head pounded. "Ow."

"Tony!" the female voice hissed again, close to his ear. He frowned. Why was Ziva . . .

"Damn!" he cursed as the events of the past couple hours came to mind, reminding him of what a catastrophe he and his co-workers had gotten themselves into.

"_Tony_!" Ziva hissed again, this time directly into his ear.

"_What_?" he demanded crankily, tilting his head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks in his neck. He immediately regretted it, as the side-to-side motion did no favors for the pulsating pain in his head. "Ow."

"You should not have slept," Ziva said, sounding frustrated. "You are concussed."

"Yeah, well I was also tired," he returned crankily, opening his eyes again a bit more cautiously. His vision swam for a second, before focusing. Ziva was crouched beside him, fixing him with sharp eyes. McGee was . . .

He sat up a bit straighter and looked around. "Where's McWaldo?"

Ziva ignored the McNickname, looking worried. "That is why I woke you. I do not know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Tony demanded, scrambling painfully to his feet. "How could you not - I mean, where would he go?"

"If I knew, Tony," Ziva snapped, "I would not be asking you."

"Stop being logical," he snapped back, "and tell me something. Is it just me, or did the walls move around while I was sleeping?"

Ziva looked concerned. "What? Tony, how hard do you think you hit your-"

Impatiently, he grabbed her by the shoulders and physically turned her around, so that she was facing the predicament. There was no longer a door in the wall where they'd entered from. In fact, there was no door at all.

Ziva opened her mouth, but no words came out. "Were we . . . moved, while we slept?" she asked finally, her voice a bit strangled.

Tony shook his head, then regretted it. "Ow. No, I don't think so. Look, there's the piece of Gibbs' shirt."

"Gibbs," Ziva said urgently, swiveling to take in the four blank walls. "How will he get back in?"

Tony's shoulders sagged and he leant back against the wall to think. "And where'd McGee go?"

Ziva had started to pace the room again. After watching her for a couple of minutes, the constant movement of his eyes added to Tony's significant headache, making him that much crankier.

"Can you stop moving so we can figure this-"

"Tony," Ziva interrupted, pointing to something on the floor, "look."

Keeping a hand on the wall for extra support, Tony made his slow way over to where Ziva stood. She was gesturing to a wobbly arrow drawn on the floor in pen, pointing to the blank wall of white concrete. "What the-"

"Could McGee have drawn it?" she asked, studying the wall intently.

"Why?" he questioned. "Why would McGraffitist draw a random arrow on the floor pointing to a blank wall?"

"Maybe," Ziva said slowly, stepping a bit closer to the wall of concrete, "it is not blank?"

"Of course it's bla-"

Tony's scoff turned into choked gasp as a rumbling noise began emanating through out the maze. Ziva jumped back in alarm as, slowly, the wall before them began to shift, revealing a slit of darkness.

"I take that back," Tony said finally, as the wall shifted into place, leaving a gaping tunnel in its place. He sifted through his pockets before procuring the penlight on his keychain and shining it into the darkness. "Looks like more maze," he pronounced disgustedly, moving the small beam of light back and forth, strafing the white walls before them with light.

"Tony!" Ziva caught his hand, pointing with her other to something in the darkness. "Another arrow!"

"You think McGee went in here?" he asked, taking a step into the corridor. His voice echoed off the walls eerily.

"Unless it is a trap," Ziva answered, staying close to his side. She looked at him hesitantly. "Do you think we should-"

He smirked and pulled down the passage, remarking happily, "This is so _Indiana Jones_."

**Haha. That last line made me laugh. Well, LyzzieRocker? Are you satisfied, or are you still going to come and hijack my computer? What did the rest of you think? Is it to your liking?**


	22. Chapter 22

**Ladies and gents, believe it or not, I'm not dead, although school did its very best to change that. I am frickin' exhausted. Waking up early is a new thing for me, and I do NOT like it. Thus, I have done absolutely nothing productive, other than homework - yes, they assigned homework my first day back! - and sleep. **

**So I apologize. This is a nice, long one to make up for it.**

**Disclaimer: *looks sadly at cold-hearted disclaimer* *pulls best Bambi eyes* *is sad to realize that said disclaimer is immune to my feminine wiles* *sniffs sadly* *goes to eat chocolate to console herself and to practice said Bambi eyes in mirror until perfected***

Leigh Ann Marcy was cranky, tired, and confused. These feelings were thanks to none other than Director Vance, who had called her in at this ungodly hour to conduct a search of a smelly pier in a notably bad part of town, without giving her so much as ten minutes to shower and eat a frozen waffle.

No, instead he'd informed her that if she did not report immediately to NCIS, her career would be down the toilet.

Marcy loved sleep as much as the next girl, but some things were more important. Her career was one of those things. So she propelled her protesting body out of bed, getting ready in record time, and broke several traffic laws getting to work.

There she'd been met by a bleary-eyed Director Vance, a tear-stained, mascara-stained forensic scientist, a sleepy ME, and - thank God - a cup of coffee.

Then they'd been sent off to Pier 14, chasing a cell phone signal that Miss Sciuto, a.k.a. the tear-stained Goth, was convinced would lead them to the MCRT, who apparently had gone missing last night.

Marcy had only been at NCIS a couple of weeks, but she already knew who the Major Case Response Team was. The whole office, down to the lowliest of office supply delivery men, knew who the MCRT was, if only because of the significant volume that always seemed to accompany the agents. There was always the clicking of keys and laughter, accompanied by a constant stream of insults and the occasional death threat.

In fact, her first day at the office she'd been subjected to a steely blue-eyed glare when she attempted to cut the coffee line in order to grab a napkin. Under those icy blues, she'd been forced to retreat to the back of the line and wait five minutes just to grab a couple of napkins.

That same day she'd been introduced to 'Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,' who made good of a thirty second elevator ride with charming efficiency. She'd spouted her phone number and received his own before she'd even had time to blink.

The other two agents Leigh Ann did not know by name, though she had received a particularly nasty glare from the foreign woman with the curly hair when she'd laughed at something DiNozzo had said.

And now Leigh Ann was being forced out of bed at four in the morning in order to go on a wild goose chase for these people. From the sound of things, this happened relatively often, and the other agents seemed to resent it.

A smelly man in need of a shave had related the whole thing to her in woeful tones as they unloaded their gear from the truck. "Same old story," he lamented, shaking his head disgustedly. "Gibbs gets in over his head, and it's our job to fish him and his monkeys out. Sure, they're the Major Case Response Team, and they get all the glory, but who's the one who does all the leg work, huh? Who?"

Of course, Leigh Ann didn't put much by this particular man's opinions as, judging from the smell of him, he'd consumed a significant volume of alcohol before being aroused by Vance. Instead, she'd clucked her tongue once in what could have been sympathy, or maybe it was disgust, and hurried on ahead.

The crackling of rotting wood under her feet was not terribly reassuring, so Leigh Ann tread carefully as she crossed the pier. It took only a couple of minutes to locate the cell phone, placed conveniently on a large crate made of rotting wood. The phone seemed to be serving as a paper weight, keeping a crisp sheet of white, lined paper from flying away in the occasional gust of foul-smelling wind that came off the bay.

After directing her make-shift team to snap a couple of photos of the phone and the note, Marcy pulled on a pair of gloves and retrieved the note, reading it quickly.

_Director Vance:_

_If you are reading this then you have no doubt become aware of your MCRT's predicament. I congratulate you on your investigative skills, as they are obviously adept enough to have brought you thus far. _

_Unfortunately, this is where the road ends, in terms of your recovery mission._

_This is not a ransom note. _

_I do not want money, nor do I wish to retrieve government documents or evidence from your archives. You see, my goal is a bit more high-class than that._

_I, like thousands before me, seek only one treasure, that being knowledge. But I, unlike those thousands who search for answers, have the means to attain them._

_Your team plays a part in a new experiment, one that will change the way we think about our armed forces, our police officers, our federal agents. Their willpower, their strength - both mental and physical - and their method of deduction will be put to the test. I am, in essence, dissecting their minds, that we may better understand what makes a soldier._

_Can you imagine, esteemed Director, what people will pay for this kind of knowledge? _

_Can you imagine what those who work on the other side of the law would give, to know how their one greatest adversary can be defeated? There are those who would give nearly anything for answers, for the knowledge that I now possess, and not all of them are criminals._

_May I call your attention, Director, to the unfortunate incident that occurred some months ago, involving one Jonas Cobb? Operation: Frankenstein was the official name, was it not?_

_It seems that criminals are not the only ones who wish to learn, to perfect the human mind in order to form the perfect soldier. _

_I am sure the CIA will be interested in my discoveries as well._

_And this is why I am not demanding ransom, Director Vance. Because I prefer to sell to the highest bidder, and I happen to know a great deal about the woeful budget cuts that have recently come your way. _

_But, truthfully, worldly goods are not what drives me._

_No, money is all fine and good, but as I have said, knowledge is my one, true love._

_So, you see, Director Vance, there is one more reason that I urge you not to pursue, the true reason that I have not demanded a ransom._

_You wish to have your agents back alive._

_I wish to obtain knowledge._

_There is no way that both of us can get we want here, as there is no way that both of these goals can be achieved. _

_And I always get what I want._

_Knowledge comes at great price, Director Vance. The secrets I am putting up for sale will not come cheap. However, the true price here is not one that some criminal or your CIA will pay._

_You will not have your agents returned to you._

_Knowledge comes at a price, after all, and _somebody _had to pay._

_Regards,_

_S_

…

Tim McGee was feeling better than he had all night. The idea that he was doing something, making progress, significantly lightened the load of guilt that had weighed heavy on his shoulders ever since his interview with the creepy man in glasses.

He thought he was beginning to understand what had happened. The maze itself had not shifted, just the doorways had. Doors that had been closed were now opened, and doors that had been open were now closed. It was simple enough, and far less scary than some of the other possibilities that had been running through his head, most of which had a basis from one movie or another and had Tim wondering if he was spending too much time with Tony.

It had been over an hour before Tim realized that he'd made a potentially fatal mistake. Until now he'd been moving rapidly, darting from one room to the next. When the pathway he needed to take was blocked, he simply took another route, and worked his way back to his original path. It had never occurred to him that if the doors moved once, they could certainly do it again.

He'd stopped to tie his shoe, turning off his penlight for the moment, in order to conserve battery life, which was slowly but surely depleting. It was a difficult task to tie your shoes in the dark, but after a few moments of fumbling, Tim managed just fine.

And then the rumbling started. He recognized it at once as the sound that had shaken him out of his restless sleep in the first place. Flipping on the penlight, he took in a sight that made his stomach drop like a stone.

The doors were shifting once more.

Immediately, he cursed himself for being an idiot. Of course the doors wouldn't just shift once, they'd keep changing, perhaps in a pattern, perhaps randomly.

Which put him in perhaps an even worse position than the one he'd started in. Because now he was entirely alone, in a closed-off section of a concrete maze, armed only with a dying flashlight and a make-shift map that would now have to be revised.

Tim looked at his options, which were few and far from pleasant.

He could fall apart, and let the despair that was rapidly overtaking his sense of purpose do its damage, or he could keep moving, and try to figure this out.

Tim was an author, and he was an investigator. But he was also a computer hacker, and some part of him took a strange satisfaction in taking on a puzzle, everything from solving a murder before the fictional Hercule Poirot did, to completing a rubix cube in under twenty minutes.

And while everyone indulged in the occasional temper tantrum, something inside Tim, that sounded suspiciously like Gibbs, was telling him that now was not the time. He could wimp out on his own time, not when the lives of his friends, his family, was at stake.

So Tim crossed his fingers, clicked his ballpoint pen, and continued forward into the darkness.

…

Gibbs didn't know what to make of this entire situation. He knew that the shifting walls was really only a series of doors, opening and closing and creating the illusion of a moving maze.

He was pretty sure that the doors were shifting in some sort of pattern, but he couldn't quite figure out what. The closed doors fit seamlessly into the walls of concrete, and it was hard to tell them apart.

He was trying to configure his movements so that they mimicked the path the team had taken earlier, taking the door on the right side of each room he entered, trying to reach that dead end where he had left his team earlier, a poor move on his part in retrospect.

However, the doors were causing him a lot of grief.

Each time it seemed his team was just around the corner, a new dead end would crop up. The new doorways made everything look different, and he was entirely disoriented. He had no idea where he was going.

Finally, after reaching yet another dead end, he whirled on Schneider. "You're sure you don't know how to get out of here?"

She shook her head, making her ponytail swing. "I don't think anyone knows how to get out of here," she said, eyes wide and vacant. "Even Mr. Simon had a map, and-"

"A map?" Gibbs interrupted. "Where? Did you ever see a copy?"

She shook her head again, deflating Gibbs' brief moment of hope, but then brightened again. "It was tattooed on his arm. Maybe we could call the tattoo artist, and see if they have a-"

"No signal, remember?" Gibbs said exasperatedly, gesturing to the bedazzled cell phone Emily had eagerly pulled from the remains of her purse. She frowned.

"Oh. Yeah."

Just then, the door directly behind Gibbs shifted, and the one in front of him opened, with a rumbling that echoed throughout the warehouse and made his head ache. Just as suddenly, an idea hit him like a ton of bricks.

"The doors!" he said, rushing to the sealed doorway. "I think the movement's timed!"

Emily's eyes widened even more than usual. "Really? Is that . . . good?"

Gibbs didn't answer, just snatched the cell phone away. "You got a stop watch on this thing?"

Emily nodded eagerly. "Yes! Plus I've got a regular watch, and I can tell you what time it is in Paris or Beijing!"

"Stopwatch!" Gibbs barked. She wilted, quickly running through her apps and selecting the stopwatch.

The next time the doorways shifted, Gibbs was ready. He started the stopwatch, then leaned back against the wall to wait. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he might be getting somewhere.

Sure enough, exactly five minutes later, the doors shifted again, proving Gibbs' theory correct.

"Is this helpful?" Emily asked, feeling like maybe she was missing something. Gibbs nodded.

"If we wait around long enough, the right door's bound to open. It's only a matter of time."

Exiting out of the stopwatch application, he found himself looking at Emily's screensaver, a picture of her and a tall, relatively good-looking man who Gibbs recognized from the ambush at the pier. In the background, the creepy man who'd spoken to him in interrogation, presumably Simon, was yelling at another man, whose face was turned from the camera. On Simon's wrist, held aloft in exasperation, was a blur of black.

"What's this?" Gibbs demanded, thrusting the phone into Emily's face. She blushed.

"Oh, that's me and Grant. He's a sweety, really. He wouldn't hurt a fly if it wasn't his job. I was going to go to a wrestling match with him next Friday, only now-" she gulped and began to cry again.

"No!" Gibbs snapped. "In the background. Is that Simon?"

She studied the picture through tear-brimmed eyes. "Um. Yes, that's Simon. He was yelling at O'Toole about, like, his cousin or something and avocadoes, and-"

"Can you blow this up?" Gibbs demanded, jabbing a finger at the picture. "Enhance it so we can see Simon's wrist?"

Emily's eyes grew huge in realization. "Yes!" she gasped. "I can!"

"Do it."

Quickly navigating her phone, Emily selected the photo and blew it up, selecting the auto-enhance option in her tool bar, and zooming in on Simon's wrist.

There sat a perfect, though a bit blurry, map of the maze.

**A resolution is in sight! I've got an ending in mind, and I'm pretty happy with it. Sorry for the lack of Simon in this chapter. He'll be in the next one, promise.**

**Oh, and for those of you reading my other stories, I again apologize for not updating. I'm working on Highschool Hazards right now, and with luck and a significant portion of chocolate, should be up by the end of the day. I'm having a really hard time writing A Lesson in Chemistry. Writer's block stinks, let me tell you. I'm trying, though. Given time (and yet more chocolate) I might get that up tonight or tomorrow. Maybe. **

**Reviews might help get rid of the writer's block! Hint, hint, nudge, nudge, Bob's your uncle and all that jazz.  
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	23. Chapter 23

**We're gonna call it school-induced writer's block, m'kay? And then you're all gonna nod sympathetically and not kill me for my looooong absence, which I'm kinda horrified about. **

**I've been tired. That's the truth. And I haven't had any ideas. I was having a hard time writing Mr. Simon as funny, without making him unrealistic. That's why he's been kind of absent in my last few chapters. I think I've found my happy medium once more, however. Let me know if you agree.**

**This is a long one, to make up for my laziness. MAJOR case breakthroughs, some Lois Lane-bashing ('cause who likes her, anyway) and a cliffy, to keep you hanging. 'Cause I'm mean like that. **

**Disclaimer - I tawt I taw a puddy tat, but it was only a discwaimer. So I cwied. **

Abby, for the first time all night, was making progress.

Of course, it wasn't much progress being made, because there really wasn't much to go on, but at least it was something. Right now, she had to be satisfied.

She had returned to her lab, retied her pigtails, and turned her music up as loud as it could go, trying to simulate a normal day of work. The only thing missing was Gibbs striding in with a Caf-Pow in hand, asking, "What do you got, Abs?"

The make-shift wannabe-MCRT had returned from Pier 14 with a truckload of evidence for Abby to go over. Even though she was exhausted and hyped up on nervous energy (and a significant dosage of fruity caffeine) Abby was feeling pretty good. Now she had something she could focus on, which calmed her mind just a little bit.

The doors slid open with a _whoosh_. Abby could practically _hear _Gibbs asking her calmly what she had for him. Her heart ached when Vance simply said, "Well?"

"No, no, no!" Abby wailed, unable to hide her disappointment. "You're supposed to say, 'What do you got, Abs?' and then you're supposed to-"

She broke off as Vance held out a large tumbler of Caf-Pow, a trace of a smile on his face.

"Well?" Vance prompted as Abby greedily sucked down her favorite beverage, cheerful once more.

"Well, indeed. This is what I have for you, Director," Abby said, feeling a bit better now that there was caffeine in her bloodstream. "The note was written on common, college-rule notebook paper, which is sold everywhere. So that's not really helpful. Same with the ink. Just a regular black ballpoint pen, I'd say."

Vance nodded. Abby took another long pull at her Caf-Pow, then forged onwards.

"This is where things get interesting. Look at the letter formation. Notice how the ink is a bit smudged?"

The forensic scientist handed Vance the piece of notepaper, carefully enveloped in an evidence bag. Vance held it close to his face and scrutinized the neat handwriting. "What about it?"

"It proves that our writer was left-handed," Abby explained eagerly, "which is a big help."

Vance nodded. "Anything else?"

Abby was offended. "Of course I have more! So I had Ducky, psychologist-extraordinaire, study the letter formation. Look how neat the writing is, Director. I don't know _anyone_ whose handwriting is that good." The Goth paused, brow crinkling as she thought. "No. That's a lie. Sister Rosita's is really good. That's why we always have her fill out the score cards when we bowl. But she's holy. So she doesn't count."

"So what did Doctor Mallard think?" Vance interrupted, looking a bit exasperated. After all, it was way too early in the morning to be contemplating the mystic abilities of a ninety-year-old nun who could bowl.

"Ducky thinks that our writer is a psycho," Abby announced grandly. "Which I, personally, already thought. I mean, what kind of creep kidnaps people like that? Obviously, he's a sicko. Ducky just confirmed it for me."

Vance had to think about that one for a second. "Doctor Mallard thinks this mysterious 'S' is insane?"

"He doesn't _think_," Abby disagreed, "he _knows_. He said" - here Abby stopped to screw up her face before launching into a fairly accurate imitation of a Scottish accent - "the most meticulous letter formation is one not often found today."

Vance cleared his throat pointedly. Sighing, Abby dropped the accent.

"And then he lamented for a couple of minutes over the 'severe decrease in education quality,' and then he started talking about his schooling, which was apparently way much better than anything nowadays. And then we discussed the virtues of a word like 'nowadays,' and whether it should be a real word or not. I don't think so. Then Ducky told me that he used to play Scrabble competitively in his spare time, and his sworn arch-enemy once defeated him by playing the word 'nowadays' over a triple word bonus square. It was really intense."

More throat clearing. Abby blinked, drank some Caf-Pow, and tried to remember what she'd been talking about.

"So anyway. The letter formation is meticulous, suggesting some form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The word choice is really refined, like maybe the writer was Mr. Webster or something. Ducky said that it suggested the writer takes on airs, trying to pretend he is smarter or more important than he actually is. So basically he's a psychopath."

"Is that all?"

Abby pretended to be hurt. "Oh, ye of little faith! So then I went through the cell phone, which belongs to O'Toole, our creepy mystery caller. Everything's fairly normal, except for one contact, which is oh-so-enigmatically labeled 'burn.' Which I'm assuming is a burn phone."

Vance nodded. "Any communicating with the burn phone?"

Abby nodded as well. "One text, from the burn phone to O'Toole's cell, which just says 'burn' again."

"It could be another of O'Toole's phones," Vance suggested, "where he makes his business calls."

"Or it could belong to the mysterious 'S,'" Abby hypothesized. "Either way, I researched the burn phone. It was bought a little over a year and a half ago at a convenience store downtown."

"Security footage?"

"Yes. Well, kind of," Abby amended. "The buyer was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, which is actually a fairly effective disguise. Facial recognition's out of the question, and he paid in cash. However, the guy was left-handed."

Abby turned to Vance expectantly, waiting for him to question her abilities once more. When he didn't, she pouted.

"You're supposed to say 'anything else' again, Director. And then I get to prove my brilliance once more."

Vance heaved a sigh and obliged. "Is that all, Miss Sciuto?"

Abby beamed. "Not on your life, Director. So I cross-referenced the FBI's database with recent releases from nearby mental facilities, and I got fifty-six possible suspects. Fourteen of these suspects were women, which brought us down to forty-two people. Now, only ten percent of the world's population is left-handed, and we got lucky. Only three of our criminals are left-handed."

Vance was impressed. "Not bad, Sciuto," he pronounced. "Maybe you are worth the amount of money we pay in Caf-Pows each month."

"Without a doubt," Abby beamed. "And I'm not done. Security footage shows our burn-phone buyer was Caucasian, which knocks off one. And I was thinking about how nice our psycho's handwriting is, so I looked into some stuff, and I discovered that one out of two had been educated by nuns in a Catholic school. Hence the fantastic cursive."

Vance was intrigued despite himself. "Name?"

Abby pulled up a photo on the plasma. "Simon Wiggins. That, Director Vance, is our 'S.'"

…

Mr. Simon was feeling pressured.

He had known it was a mistake to hire a female sound tech. They had such a tendency to pull a Lois Lane and get themselves into trouble by being nosy and wearing ugly pastel skirt-and-blazer combos. But he had given the opposite sex the benefit of the doubt and hired Emily Schneider. And what had she done? Well, first of all, her choice of outfitting was just as dubious, if not more, than dear Lois' frumpy office wear. And then she had gotten herself lost in the maze.

Yes, things were going along just dandily. And now Agent Gibbs had a map of the labyrinth.

So if Simon was being a bit harsh on his male employees, it was entirely understandable.

"Sir, I-"

"Shut up, O'Toole!" Simon roared. Adam sat back meekly in his seat and tried not to fidget, though he had to the restroom quite desperately.

Simon got out of his chair and began to pace, his lab coat flapping as he strode back and forth in his anguish. Things had been going so well until now. This was utterly unfair, and entirely Schneider's fault.

Was this the reward he got for striving to be politically correct and open-minded?

It seemed there was only one thing left to do. Mr. Simon strode back to his cockpit of buttons and levers and pretty flashing lights and selected his weapon of choice. Agent Gibbs had a rule, he knew, about advantages.

Rule 16. If somebody thinks they have the upper hand . . . break it.

Simon smiled. _Well put, Agent Gibbs._

He pressed the button.

…

At first, they didn't notice the difference. After all, it was dark and disorienting, and Tony and Ziva were both injured. They'd been making slow progress, hampered by the ever-changing paths and Ziva's stubborn refusal to admit that her ribs were killing her. While the two weren't exactly arguing, there wasn't very much communication going on either.

It was exactly six minutes and thirteen seconds after Simon had pressed his dear little upper-hand-breaking button that the partners reached one of the booby-trapped rooms.

They walked right in.

…

McGee sensed it right away.

It just so happened that he had exited one of the rigged rooms only seconds before Simon pressed the button. It was dark, and he'd gotten used to the rumbling of the walls, but this was something new.

It was more of a hum, or maybe a hiss, and it reminded him of a huge storm that had hit his home a couple of months after his tenth birthday. They'd been confined to the house for an entire day in the dark while the electric company carefully dealt with the mammoth old oak that had come crashing down onto the power lines outside.

His mother had lectured he and Sarah endlessly about the dangers of downed power lines, and McGee was fairly well educated on the subject. So his steps were cautious as he turned back to investigate the noise.

He stopped directly in front of the doorway he had just come through, where the noise was loudest. He directed the fading beam of his penlight towards the source of the noise with all the circumspection of a ten-year-old.

He didn't like what he saw.

…

Gibbs didn't believe in luck.

But he wasn't sure if there was another word suitable for the situation, because there was no reasonable explanation for what happened.

He had been in front the entire time. Emily had been cowering behind, sniffling and lamenting the slow and steady decomposition of her favorite designer purse. He had been leading the way. It was what he did. He was the leader.

But the discovery of the map had livened Emily a bit.

So much so that she had skipped ahead a bit, gushing about the wonders of technology, and how happy Grant would be when he found out that his photo had saved her life. Gibbs had been following behind, wishing that the blonde would shut up.

She did, after a single shriek.

**Cue the ominous sound track! **

**Yay! I'm so happy right now that you can't even begin to comprehend it. I've finally got my mojo back! I was really struggling with this story, because Simon was becoming increasingly ridiculous and less and less believable. But I got it under control, after an over-long vacation. Shall I apologize once more?**

**So what did we think of the season premiere? I have mixed feelings about it. While I feel like some Tiva progress was made (pencil kiss was adorable) and maybe, just maybe, this season will bring some developments in that department (we can keep hoping, right?) I was a bit disappointed by the case itself. Such a lame-o plot line. I mean, sure, I love me some hurt-Tony, and I tend to like Doctor Kate's Sister, but the mystery target was so stupid. And Mr. SecNAV is not looking to be my valentine, I can assure you.**

**Yeesh. Long rant. My apologies. Again. Gibbs' rule has just taken a bashing . . . **

**So review. Reviews make me happy. When I'm happy I write faster and better and I'm not even making that up. I swear. Let me know what you thought of the season premiere, as well as what you thought of this chapter. Do you hate me for the cliffie? What was your favorite line? Let me know and I will send you a chocolate-covered squirrel for your own personal enjoyment. Compliments of le chef.**

**Thanks! Byeee...!  
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	24. Chapter 24

**Dang, I love this chapter! It's got lots of lovely Abby-ness, plus a healthy dose of Grant Simmons. Who rocks my world. And, yeah, sorry about last week's mean cliffhanger. This kinda brings about a resolution. Kinda. **

**Disclaimer - Holy Decidedly Uncooperative NCIS-owning Officials Who Are Stinking Millionaires And Yet Unwilling to Be Charitable And Give a Poor, Stomach-Flu-Stricken Wittle Girl a Teeny-Tiny Piece of NCIS, Batman!**

Abby's moment of triumph was as short-lived as her extra-large tumbler of Caf-Pow, which she had swigged down in a record-breaking seventy-two seconds.

She had made some progress, it was true, but progress wasn't the same thing as 'cracking the case,' which apparently had yet to be done.

She'd thought (hoped) optimistically that, now that Gibbs' kidnapper had been exposed, it would be a simple matter of finding Simon's address and storming the apartment with wave after wave of rescuers, be they the Justice League, a legion of flying monkeys, or a SWAT team. She'd even fantasized about stowing away in the trunk of one of the police cars so that, after the battle was over, she could sneak out and kick Simon where it counted with her spiked boots.

But it looked like her revenge plot would have to wait, because progress had just come to a screeching halt, so to speak.

Simon had simply disappeared off the grid, to use and trite (and possibly incorrect) expression. Abby was pretty sure that she had mixed up her cliché military-and-cop-procedural-television-program-sayings, because 'disappeared off the grid' wasn't sounding correct to her, but that just made her think of Ziva and her ceaseless butchering of the English language, and this only made her want to cry, so she just sucked on the straw of her empty Caf-Pow container and ran her search again, just in case Simon had possibly used a credit card or turned on his cell phone during the five seconds she'd just spent moping.

Hey, you never knew, right?

Unfortunately, Simon had not been so obliging as to give away his position since her last search, which put her back in square one. (Or was it square zero? After all, square zero would imply that they had nothing. Which was the truth. So why say square one and mislead everyone into thinking that they had something, when they in actuality had nothing? Or very close to nothing, at least. Perhaps she was in square .5?)

Vance arrived back in the lab, a cell phone cradled to his face with his shoulder, which freed his hands long enough for him to pass Abby a hastily-written Post-it note and, to her joy, another Caf-Pow.

_What do you got?_

Abby pouted at the Director. His choice of wording was terribly insensitive, given the situation. He just raised an impatient eyebrow at her, however, so she dropped her frowny-face and set to work reporting the predicament.

_**We have nothing**_, she scribbled on the back of the post-it. _**Nothing new AT ALL! After being discharged from the mental facility, having been deemed 'able to function in society,' (which was obviously a total oversight on the 'trained professional's' fault, whoever he or she is . . . I'm gonna hunt them down and make sure whoever's in charge of such incompetence fires their butts pronto. Like, ASAP. Do you think 5 in the morning is too early to call and file a law suit?) . . . So, as I was saying, after Simon was discharged (hello, lawsuit!) he just disa- **_

Abby frowned as she ran out of room on the Post-it. She began shuffling through her desk frantically for her own pad of sticky papers. Sighing, Vance took pity on the Goth and hung up the cell phone.

"Continue, Miss Sciuto," he directed crisply.

"Okay!" Abby shut the drawer of her desk with an enthusiastic _bang_. "Simon was discharged exactly two years, three months, and seventeen days ago, having been determined as a harmless lunatic. Misdiagnosis of the century award goes to whoever that idiot was. So then, basically, Simon disappears. We never hear from him again. No credit cards, no cell phone, no driver's license renewal. Nothing! He just disappears off the grid." Abby frowned. "Is that how you say it? Disappeared off the grid? Or did I pull a Ziva? I know you can say 'disappeared off the face of the earth,' and you can say that something is 'off the charts,' but I can't remember which phrase has to do with grids. Or did I just make that whole thing up? 'Cause I've been known to do that when I'm super high on caffeine, which I am right now, but that doesn't mean you should stop bring me caffeine ever five minutes or so, because caffeine withdrawal would just add to my nervous tension, which is pretty tense, if you can see what I mean-"

"Miss Sciuto!" Vance snapped. "Breathe."

Abby did as she was told, surprised at how much better she felt once she'd taken a few deep breaths. She thought about putting her head between her knees, so as to release a bit more stress, but then she reconsidered. After all, her skirt was pretty short . . .

"So, basically," she said finally, "Simon disappeared. We never see him again, except for on that convenience store's security tape."

Vance thought about this. "What about the mental facility's records?" he asked. "Don't they usually keep track of their patients for a few months after their discharge? They'd notice if Simon suddenly went off the grid."

"That's what I thought," Abby agreed, nodding appreciatively at Vance's correct usage of the phrase 'off the grid.' "So I went through St. Monica's Home for the Mentally Troubled's archives. Well, actually, I was going through them because I was trying to find a picture of the doctor who was stupid enough to release Simon for my dart board, and that's when I ran into a problem."

"A problem?" Vance raised his eyebrows.

"Another one," she confirmed grimly. "His file was totally erased, just deleted from the archives. I'm trying to retrieve it right now. I mean, I'm pretty fast and all, but McGee wa- I mean, _is_ better . . . don't tell him I said that."

"I'll call in some people from the Cybercrimes unit," Vance promised. "They'll be down in five."

Abby nodded disconsolately. Visitors to her lab? This day just kept getting worse . . .

"Tell them to bring lots of Caf-Pow with them," she yelled at the Director's retreating back.

If things continued the way they'd been going so far, she was going to need it, that was for sure.

…

Grant Simmons clapped his hands appreciatively, earning him a satisfied glance from Simon and a withering look from O'Toole. He supposed that this was undermining what shred of dignity he had left, but he didn't really care.

Finally, _finally_, they'd gotten to the fun part!

If this were a movie, Simmons probably would have fast-forwarded through all the psychology crap to get to the action scenes, which had finally joined the party.

"Happy, are we, Mr. Simmons?" Simon asked dryly. Grant grinned at his employer.

"Just appreciating your awesomeness, sir," he offered.

Simon wasn't sure how to take this compliment. It was certainly a departure from the normal 'brilliant's and 'interesting's, but he was pretty sure that that was mainly because 'awesomeness' was not a word.

However, he supposed a compliment was a compliment, so he ran with it. "Thank you, Mr. Simmons. I'm glad you are enjoying my . . . erm, awesomeness. Perhaps you would like to try your hand at a bit of analyzing?"

Grant's eyes widened and his face went pale, no doubt with awe at his employer's generous offer. "I-I don't think that's such a good idea, s-s-s-ir. I-I mean, doctor."

Simon smiled genially. "Nonsense, Simmons. Let's see how close you've been paying attention, shall we?"

Simmons blanched even further, if that was possible. This was like one of those annoying pop quizzes back in school, where the teacher just expected you to _know_ this stuff from sitting in the back of the classroom, chewing gum and carving curse words into the desk surface.

"I-I don't thi-think that's such a g- a good idea," he faltered. O'Toole, Grant noted through his panic, was smirking rather unpleasantly.

"Yeah, nonsense, Grant," the quiet Irish henchman said wickedly. "Weren't you just telling me earlier today how much you wanted to be a psychologist like Doctor Simon? How you thought you could be a _better _psychologist than Doctor Simon?"

Simon's genial expression faded a bit until it looked more like the petulant pout of one whose ego has taken a blow. "I am . . . touched by your admiration, Simmons," he grouched finally, "though I must advise you not to let your supposed brilliance go to your head. Even the best of us fall prey to that evil monster called arrogance . . . aside from myself, of course. I, despite my obvious superiority, am modest as can be."

"Oh, absolutely," Grant stuttered, sparing O'Toole his most dangerous glare, the one he usually saved only for intimidating his targets and for impressing the occasional girl. "But I really think that you're better suited for-"

"Go on, Grant," O'Toole said in quiet malice, crossing his arms over his chest, "do what the doctor said."

Simmons swallowed nervously - once, twice, a third time - and cleared his throat several times, buying time and trying to recollect anything Simon might have mentioned about psychology. He couldn't remember a thing.

"Um," he said finally, "well it looks like you had some sort of . . . a wire, like for electricity, in the concrete of some of the doorways?"

He snuck a glance at his employer to see if he'd flubbed up yet. Simon nodded for him to continue. Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Grant stumbled on.

"And, um, Agent O- . . ."

Simmons' mind whirled, panicked, trying to remember the name of the nerdy Irishman who'd escaped the electric wires in the ground. It was Irish, he knew that . . . O'Reilly? No . . . O'Hara? No, that wasn't it either . . . It had something to do with a farm . . . McDonald? No, but that was close . . .McGee!

"Agent _McGee_ got lucky," Grant began again. "He, um, noticed the wires and went back to study them, and now he knows that he has to be careful where he steps . . . which will . . . slow him down even further . . . and make him more angry?"

Simon was surprised. That was actually fairly accurate! "Yes, Simmons, that is true," he grudgingly allowed. "Slow progress will leave him frustrated and more apt to become impatient and forget to mark his path. Continue, please."

Simmons mentally groaned. He wasn't out of the woods yet.

"Uh . . . it looks like Agent DiNozzo might've noticed the, um, the trap. He pushed Agent . . . "

Why did all the agents have to have such confusing names? Why couldn't they all just be Agent Smith or something?

"He pushed his . . . partner out of the way of the wire. Only it looks like she . . . got hurt anyway?"

"He shoved her away from the wire at the last minute," Simon agreed, "but she hit the side of the door upon descent. Concussed, probably, and bleeding."

"That will make DiNozzo angry?" Simmons ventured. "And, um, guilty, because he pushed her?" He thought fast. How would he feel if he got pushed into a wall by his partner? He was pretty sure that he'd be irritated that his partner had noticed something before he had. "And, uh, the, um, girl . . . she might be angry at herself? For not noticing the wire?"

Simon's jaw dropped a little bit. He immediately closed his mouth and tried to think of a way to agree without giving Simmons something further to gloat about.

"Why, yes," he answered finally. "DiNozzo will feel guilty. Agent David will be irritated that she had not been being cautious enough. She will start to doubt her own abilities, which will make her all the more defensive. Nice work, Simmons."

Grant's eyes widened. Had Simon just complimented him?

"And what about Gibbs?" Simon prompted, hoping that Simmons would foul up this time. "What's going on over there?"

Simmons shrugged. "Emily stepped on the wire and got shocked," he announced, apparently not too concerned with poor Emily's fate. She'd been pretty, he supposed, but she hadn't looked so good with her makeup all runny and her face all blotchy. Who wanted a girlfriend who looked like that?

"Yep," Simon agreed, nodding his head like he was satisfied. "She did indeed."

"But I don't think she's dead," Simmons continued, squinting at the monitor, "because she's making little whimpery noises. She's just passed out. And Gibbs is carrying her."

"And what does that tell us about him?"

"He, um, he . . . you know . . ." Simmons looked about nervously for an escape. He was so confused.

"No, Simmons, we don't know," O'Toole said crisply, perhaps enjoying this a bit more than he strictly should. But the man was suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal, and the sight of his competition being humiliated was just to good not to be happy about. He'd subtly taken his phone out of his pocket to record the scene. "Tell us, please?"

Simmons studied his hands in bewilderment, eyes darting back and forth as he thought frantically. Then God or fate or Chuck Norris, whoever was in charge of the way the universe worked, seemed to take pity on him, because the hitman's eyes came to rest on one of his many tattoos, a small cross on his left middle finger's knuckle.

Simmons hadn't been to church for years, and he'd only gotten the cross because it reminded him of a particularly lucrative job that had involved taking out a Mafia kingpin who'd always worn a cross around his neck, but for some reason a Bible story came to mind.

"Gibbs is like . . . the, um, Good Samaritan guy?" he suggested finally. "Because he's taking care of his enemy?"

Total silence met this remarkable analogy. Then, grudgingly, Simon applauded. Granted, it was only two feeble and sullen little claps, but it made Grant's heart swell - not with pride, but with relief. He was done.

Thank Chuck Norris.

**Grant has Chuck Norris to thank, but I have reviewers to be grateful for! Your 'awesomeness' makes me happy! **

**So let's add a bit to our awesomeness, how about it? Simon says review! (And, yes, I only thought that up yesterday, which is pretty sad, considering that that's the title of my story. But whatever. You now HAVE to review. Because the all-powerful-Simon told you to. And so does Chuck Norris.)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for not updating. I had writer's block the size of Godzilla, and no amount of chocolate seemed to be able to cure it. (Believe me, I tried...) But I'm finally satisfied, so here you go. Enjoy.**

**Minor spoils for Kill Ari, part 1 and some really, really vague references to Inception. Seriously, they're so mutated that I doubt even the writer's would recognize the plot line. But whatever. **

**Disclaimer - It got eaten by a giant gecko with an Australian accent. **

Abby put her best drill-sergeant-meets-Simon-Cowell-meets-Leroy-Jethro-Gibbs face on, clasped her hands behind her back, and began to pace back and forth in front of the new arrivals to her lab. After a few revolutions, having gathered herself sufficiently, she stopped, turned on a heel, and stared down the cyber-geeks.

She made a mental note to congratulate Timmy. Obviously, his transformation from geek to agent had not been appreciated fully, because Tim McGee was nowhere _near_ as nerdy and easily-frightened as these invertebrates.

"Caf-Pows!" she barked, staring unblinkingly until her eyes began to burn from the lack of moisture. "Hand 'em over, and then I'll see about dealing with you people."

Someone had warned the cyber-nerds, who were well-equipped with tumblers of Caf-Pow. One particularly well-prepared geek, the kind who no doubt kept an industrial container of hand sanitizer and an umbrella in his man-purse, had even brought two.

Abby beamed. "That's initiative, people!" she shouted. "What's your name, son?"

She winced and decided never ever to ever call anyone 'son' ever again. It made her sound so . . . _old_ . . .

Boy Scout/Cyber-geek supreme blinked nervously. "W-walter Higham, ma'am," he stuttered. Abby nodded at him approvingly.

"Well, Walter, I may not like your tie" - she stopped, squinted at the man, then frowned - "or your shoes, for that matter, but I like the way your mind works. You think ahead. So I'm going to give you the privilege of being my guinea pig."

More nervous blinking and a couple of sniffles. Walters pulled out a tissue and blew his nose violently. Abby's pleased expression faded into a grim look of exasperation. She handed him a bottle of hand sanitizer in exchange for the two extra-jumbo-grande's.

"I have had some . . . un-fun experiences, when it comes to lab assistants. I work alone, at the risk of sounding like a heavily-clichéd cartoon Batman or something. So don't take it personally if I question your motives. Everyone, line up for a quick ID-check. Then we'll see about testing those drinks for poison. I would appreciate it if you'd have your security passes out ahead of time, as this will save time, and will ultimately help us achieve our main objective faster."

Walters raised his now-sanitized hand anxiously. "And that main objective would be?"

Abby glared at him through heavy mascara. "Did I give you permission to speak?"

Walter started to answer, thought better of it, and shook his head mutely. Abby smiled broadly and patted the man kindly on the head.

"I knew I liked you, Walt. So to save time I'm going to let you take a sip of each of my Caf-Pows, to ensure that they are not poisoned. If they aren't, you can give them to me to drink. If they are poisoned . . ." - Abby smiled cheerfully - "well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. So let's get to work!"

…

Progress had never been very fast, but things had now slowed down to a crawl. Tim McGee was getting impatient.

Every doorway required a careful scrutiny before he could even step over the threshold. Then he had to wait, sometimes for over five minutes at a time, for his door of choice to slide open. Then he had to check _that_one for wires . . .

Tim thought that the tortoise must have had the patience of a saint, because 'slow and steady' might win the race, but it was also driving him insane!

That wasn't the only problem.

Actually, there were several problems, the largest being that he'd been captured by a psycho, and it was _his__fault_. Oh, yes, and now he was stuck in a booby-trapped maze with nothing but a ballpoint pen and a flickering penlight.

He was trying to conserve the battery life of his mini-flashlight, but McGee wasn't sure how much longer he'd have light to see by. Progress, as had been noted, was _slooooow_. And if the flashlight ran out, it'd be only a matter of time before he slipped up.

He could practically hear Tony's jokes about McPopcorn Chicken or, better yet, Chicken McNuggets now . . .

…

Tony was having problems of his own.

Actually, it was more like one big problem, and her name was Ziva David.

Ziva, apparently, didn't _do_ the whole 'damsel in distress' schpeal. In fact, she seemed to take personal offense from it.

She'd insisted for a moment or so that she was '_fine'_and that he was '_overreacting_.' She'd shrugged him off and strode ahead to carefully inspect the next doorway. Then she'd blacked out for a good ten minutes, and Tony had thrown caution to the wind.

Now he was half-carrying her, half-dragging her, because Little Miss 'Fine' refused to be carried like the distressed damsel that she was.

If progress had been slow before, they were moving at a snail's pace now.

From Ziva's position against him, Tony had a perfect view of the bloodied lump rising on the back of his partner's head, from where she'd been thrown into the wall. This, of course, wasn't doing much to ease his guilt, not was the fact that apparently Ziva wasn't speaking to him anymore.

He wondered if he was supposed to be keeping her talking, to stop her from blacking out again. He wasn't sure - his own concussion had pretty much screwed his first aid knowledge - but he was bored, so he started babbling.

…

Abby was halfway through her sixth Caf-Pow, having deemed them worthy of consumption after thoroughly inspecting Walter for any telltale symptoms of poisoning. The geeky man seemed to be alright, though the dramatic spike of caffeine intake seemed to be having a poor effect on his nerves. She'd sent him to go lay down in the corner until he stopped seeing pink elephants hiding behind Major Mass Spec.

She strode up and down the row of geeks, feeling frustratingly useless. She knew that these losers were better with computers than she was, and that they would produce results far faster than she herself could . . . but that didn't change the fact that staying still and doing _nothing_while Timmy was in danger was totally destroying her nerves.

She forced herself to remain cheerful, put her loudest, most up-beat cacophony in the cd-player, and readjusted her pigtails. She wondered if she was growing immune to the powers of caffeine. If so, she was in for a big problem.

Abby was in the midst of wondering if Vance would allow her to start drinking tequila shots in the lab when one of the geeks let out a triumphant shout and turned to display his success, emblazoned on the computer screen.

He squeaked a bit when Abby pulled him into the fiercest hug she had ever administered, then slowly backed into the corner to tentatively prod at his bruised ribs while the ecstatic Goth went to call Vance.

Finally, finally, finally, they had some answers.

…

Leigh Ann Marcy was chugging coffee and eyeing her make-shift team with disgust when her cell phone vibrated. She shot Agents O' Driscoll and Nelson, who were doing a poor job of disguising the fact that they were not entirely sober, a disapproving glare as she dug her phone out of her pocket and answered the call, praying for a break-through.

It wasn't so much that she was concerned for the MCRT's safety - after all, she hardly knew the people - as that she was sick and tired of waiting around in the darkened office with a bunch of idiotic excuses for the government's finest.

"Marcy here."

"Got a pencil?" Vance inquired brusquely, wasting no time with niceties such as a greeting or an identification. After a quick scramble which involved digging through the drawers of the nearest desk, Leigh Ann procured a stub of a pencil that seemed to be suffering from the chicken pox, so severely had it been nibbled upon.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Vance reeled off an address as Marcy held another quick search for a piece of paper. Having finally found an old take-out menu, Leigh Ann timidly asked for the Director to repeat the address. He did, with much disapproval dripping from his tone. "That's the last known address of Simon Wiggins, our suspect. Send a team over and update the BOLOs. Now."

Vance hung up, leaving Marcy to scan the hodgepodge of disheveled faces for relatively coherent agents she could send out.

…

It had been a long twenty minutes or so of nonstop babble before Ziva officially began to fear for her sanity.

Unless you are either a psychopath or, well, Tony, the concept of a dream within a dream . . . (within a dream?) was not an easy to one to grasp. Add to the equation the fact that she was highly concussed, in great pain, and whole-heartedly humiliated with her stupidity, and you should have a rough idea of how exactly Ziva was feeling at the time.

If that psychotic wannabe-shrink didn't kill Tony, Ziva was more than up for the task.

"And so, see, the girl realizes that there's still a way to save the Asian guy and the person whose dreams they're hacking. They just have to go into limbo, which is like this place where time sort of stops, and the guy who DiCaprio plays has actually already been there, so-"

Oh, yes, and Tony could not seem to recollect the names of _any_of the main characters - no doubt because he was concussed as well - which only made things that much more confusing.

"And so they hook themselves up to the dream machine thingy, and-"

"Please," she moaned finally. "If you do not stop I am going to shoot you and-"

"You don't have a gun," Tony pointed out logically. "Plus if you kill me you won't have anybody to use as a crutch."

"I do not _need_a crutch," Ziva ground out through gritted teeth. "I keep telling you that."

"And I keep conveniently developing this weird loss of hearing every time you do," he countered. "So, anyway, they wash up on a beach in limbo, and there's all these buildings that are crumbling, and-"

"I will find a gun," she promised, trying not to wince as Tony propped her up against the wall while he carefully inspected the next doorway for traps, "and I will shoot you."

"I thought you liked DiCaprio!" he protested, snapping off the penlight and hooking his arms around his partner's waist again. Slowly they shuffled forward into the next room.

"I like _watching_DiCaprio, not hearing you attempt to explain what sounds like an awful movie-"

"It was a really good movie," Tony countered sullenly, "and it's not my fault that I'm concussed enough that I can't remember the characters' names."

"Talk about something else," she begged, desperation and pain and menace singing a twisted trio. After a long moment, he readjusted his arm around her waist.

"Tell me about Ari."

Any breath she'd had left in her bruised, aching chest rapidly departed in the form of a pained, surprised gasp. "I- _What_?"

He refused to look at her. "You heard me."

Ziva battled a series of emotions ranging from confusion to irritation. Finally, she compromised and settled for belligerent bewilderment. "There is not anything to tell."

"Well, apparently there was," her partner said calmly, though his jaw tensed a bit, "and if there's anything else you're hiding from me about the David clan, I'd prefer to hear it from you and not from a psychotic Bill Nye."

She blinked and seized on the unfamiliar term in a crippled attempt to distract Tony. "Bill Nye?"

"The science guy," he answered shortly. "He explains the mysteries of the scientific world in dumbed-down terms for kids. You know, about the weather and photosynthesis and how it wasn't Gibbs who killed your brother."

"And you believed him?" she challenged, raising an eyebrow and trying to collect herself.

"No." He hesitated. "Yes. I don't know. You didn't tell me about your ribs, and it got me thinking . . . what else were you lying to me about, you know?"

Ziva closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Ari," she said finally, "was my hero. He could do everything I could do, only better, but he did not brag about it. He taught me how to climb trees and how to throw a knife and how to tell when someone was lying. He taught me how to lie so that nobody would know. He was-" her breath caught in her throat as her head throbbed suddenly, but she pulled herself together "- very good . . . at lying.

"He was very different after he joined Mossad. He was gone for months and months, and when he came home he was not the same. Abb- _Eli_said he had been injured, that it took time to recuperate, but . . . he was never the same.

"Tali never understood. She was scared of Ari, after he came home. She said his eyes were different. I never thought about it until after I had joined as well. I understood what she meant then, because I saw the change every time I looked in the mirror."

"Ziva-" Tony tried to interrupt. His eyes, when they met hers, were pained, but she kept talking.

"I shot him in Gibbs' basement. Up until the very second I pulled the trigger, I was sure he was innocent. He was . . . my hero, and he was my brother. But he stood there with the gun pointed at Gibbs, and he revealed to me who my father truly was. I realized that blood does not determine loyalties. And I shot him."

Tony was quiet. The silence made Ziva's gut ache with fear. She knew her partner thought her brother was a monster . . . and why would she be any different?

"I just wish . . ." he said finally, stopping in his tracks. "That you'd told me. I thought we could trust-"

"We can!" Ziva winced at the impetuous words that burst forth before she could collect her poker face. "Tony, I-"

Her partner cut her off by shaking his head and giving her a squeeze with the arm wrapped around her. The pressure on her bruised joints hurt, but in a good way. "Forget it. Come on, we've got a McGee to find."

And the two set off once more.

**Review or I will be forced to throw a pumpkin pie at you. Please don't make me waste my precious desserts. Make me happy and review, and I will give you a slice - with whipped cream!**


	26. Chapter 26

**I did it, people! I FINALLY got around to updating this bad boy! And I'm actually surprisingly happy with how it turned out, despite my ever-increasing disdain for this story. I don't know - maybe it's just me, but I think I've improved so much since chapter 1 that the comparison is almost ludicrous. But if you guys are still interested, I will not abandon this - not after all the time and effort invested, and not after all the lovely, lovely things you people heaped upon me. **

**Disclaimer - Buddy the Elf! What's your favorite color?**

Georgette Lewis was an unfortunately-shaped woman, with quite possibly the largest, most mountainous backside ever to have the displeasure of being squeezed into a decidedly skimpy pair of skinny jeans. Her decided girth and woeful lack of fashion sense was accompanied by a penchant for high-heeled shoes, avocados, and money.

Money was what made Georgette's world go 'round, and money was something scarce to be found, if you wanted to set it to verse, as Georgette often mentally did when she felt her life was beginning to lack the drama that positively dripped from the soap operas she devoured every afternoon daily.

You did what you had to do, was Georgette's motto - artfully stitched onto three sofa cushions, as well as emblazoned on six over-sized t-shirts - and so when that dear little cream puff of a younger cousin called up, proposing a plan that was decidedly lacking in the legalities department, she had no other feasible choice but to accept.

Family was family, after all. And money was money.

And so Georgette bundled herself into her absolute favorite lab coat, the one with the kittens decorating the over-sized pockets, pulled on her heels - positively lethal, at exactly five-and-a-half inches tall - and tottered out to her car.

There was approximately a dozen citrus-scented air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror, but Georgette sniffed distastefully before thoroughly dousing herself in a coat of Lime in the Coconut Anti-Aging Spray, as well as a spritz or two of Passion in the Peonies perfume.

The stench was enough to send any asthmatic within the tri-state area into a wheezing frenzy.

Apparently satisfied, Georgette roared off in her bubblegum-pink Cadillac convertible to reconnect with the family. She wondered if Adam remembered The Cheese Danish Incident.

…

Mr. Simon DeForest Wiggins was smart - Abby would give the man that.

Although, technically, she was fairly certain the aforementioned Simon did not categorize as a man at all, but as a rodent of the nastiest variety. A cockroach, maybe. A Beast. Something to be exterminated as rapidly as possible, to avoid the spread of disease and discord, with a rolled-up newspaper or a vindictive stomp of the feet.

Regardless, Simon was smart, but he was no match for the great Abigail Sciuto, especially when she was in a rage like this.

This man was a specimen of the worst degree, she was grimly unsurprised to discover as she perused the recently-recovered files of Mr. Wiggins, who apparently like to refer to himself as 'Doctor Simon.'

This man had caused two caretakers to suffer from massive nervous breakdowns before he had celebrated his tenth birthday. He had been hospitalized after the third babysitter came upon the pre-teen performing 'experiments' on the neighbor's puppy. In short, this was a man who _deserved _the atrocity that served as his middle name - DeForest.

Finally Abby tore her eyes away from the expansive medical files of the object of her hatred, navigating swiftly through the man's financial records, looking for any inconsistencies.

She found one almost immediately, and allowed herself a pleased grin before setting off to report the news.

Mr. Simon DeForest Wiggins might be smart, but he had made one crucial mistake - he had underestimated the power of mama-bear instincts on caffeine.

Oooh, this guy was going _down_.

…

McGee was quite positive he was about to turn the corner into the happy world of insanity - where tiny elves danced and sang and gorged on donut holes, which he supposed could be classified as cannibalism - when he literally turned a corner and crashed into Gibbs.

Tim was surprised at how little relief he felt, and he couldn't help but wonder what that meant.

Uniting with Gibbs didn't solve anything, because Gibbs was in the same boat as they were. Gibbs was just as stuck, just as lost, as he.

He eyed briefly the limp form of a young woman, slung in a fireman's hold over Gibbs' shoulder, but he decided not to ask. It wasn't like it mattered anyway.

Gibbs groaned when Tim related just how he been separated from his teammates, but McGee did not feel even a twinge of guilt. He'd done what he'd had to do. Second-guessing himself at this point was totally and absolutely useless.

"What I wouldn't give for a coffee," Gibbs said grimly, and Tim couldn't help but agree.

…

Ziva was fairly certain she had never been quite this close to losing her iron-clad composure as she was right now.

She was in pain. She was scared. She was lost. She was confused.

She felt like a little child, running through the army of stiff-necked pine trees in the forests back at home, with the sun just inches above the leafy rooftop and a deadline looming overhead like the arched branches.

Back then the fear had been fun, like riding an extreme roller coaster with your hands in the air, because she'd always loved the forest, had never felt at odds with the quiet greenery and crunchy leaves underfoot.

But it wasn't fun anymore, because now there were only stark walls of unforgiving, unyielding white. There was blood trickling down her forehead, clumping and drying in her eyelashes like an over-application of crappy mascara, and Tony's eyes didn't focus, even when he looked her straight in the face.

She couldn't just curl up in a ball here and sleep until the morning sun shone through the cracks of the treetops like fragments of broken sunlight drifting to earth. The walls went on forever, and she wondered if this was what Purgatory was like - with a light at the end of a tunnel that never stopped turning.

Tony was still talking, but she wasn't listening and she doubted he was either. The words were just white noise - white like the walls and the floor and the sky, white like the fog that was edging up in her peripheral vision - and they both took a little comfort in it.

At least this much was up to them.

…

"An inheritance," said Abby.

"Knocking," returned Vance.

"It's a sum of money that people, you know, inherit when somebody they're related to dies," the Goth bulldozed on.

"It's a common courtesy," Vance explained helpfully.

"Common courtesies are irrelevant when the life of a friend is at stake," Abby responded snootily, then amended. "_Friends_. As in plural."

"Etiquette. As in manners."

Abby stomped over to the door, slammed her first against its surface so violently that her knuckles reddened almost immediately with a bruise, and asked in a voice so sugar-sweet that it made Director Vance's teeth ache, "If you could spare a moment of your _ever-so-valuable _time, Director Vance?"

There was really no response for such actions, except perhaps a polite request that she vacate the premises immediately and seek out a job elsewhere, so Vance simply sighed and sat back in his chair. "What can I do for you, Miss Sciuto?"

"Actually," Abby said eagerly, overcoming her brief bout of sullenness with remarkable resilience, "it's more of a what _I _can do for _you. _Well, no. Really, it's what _I _can do for _them_. Them being, you know, Gibbs and Tony and Ziva and Timmy-"

A pointed clearing of the throat proving ineffective, Vance opted for a more direct course of action. "You have thirty seconds to tell me what you've barged into my office for, or I will gladly refer you to a nearby elementary school, where your ground-breaking methods of forcing grammar lesson upon a person will surely prove valuable."

Abby wrinkled her nose, opened her mouth, shut it, took a deep breath in through the nose, and then said in a much calmer tone of voice:

"Simon Wiggins recently inherited a decent chunk o' moolah from his great-aunt, who passed away two years ago. Upon his release from the mental hospital - I'm still not over that, by the way, and will be suing - he invested the greater portion of this cash-ino into gutting and renovating a previously abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, also purchased with dear old Auntie Thomasina's money."

This time no common courtesies were exchanged. Vance picked up the phone and began dialing Special Agent Leigh Ann Marcy.

Abby let herself out, closing the door quietly behind her.

**So I apologize for leaving this hanging as long as I did. I'm just not terribly happy with it anymore. I promise I WILL finish it, because I would hate to abandon something that consumed so much of my time, but I really would like some feedback. **

**How do y'all feel about this? Who wants me to continue? I need a little reassurance, people!**

**Thanks to everyone who's held on for this long. Review, please - convince me not to leave you hanging for as long as I have in the past. **

**Love to all my readers - Styx**


	27. Chapter 27

**I'm sorry. I've really got to get better at this updating stuff. But at least this time I've included a healthy dose of darling Simon for my hopefully understanding and forgiving readers. I've got excuses, probably legitimate, but I doubt you want to hear 'em. So I've been busy is all. I'll update as soon as I can. **

**Hopefully this chapter's not too out there for ya. Let me know if you're confused. Even if everything's as clear as Cote de Pablo's flawless complexion, let me know what you thought, m'kay? Seriously. Berate me for my over-extensive hiatuses. I don't mind. I probably deserve it. But, moving on . . . .**

**Disclaimer - Friends, Romans, Countrymen . . . I own it not. **

It was official, Mr. Simon decided vindictively. The moment that insufferable know-it-all Neanderthal Grant Simmons came into consciousness, he was fired.

He supposed it was rather unfair as, after all, nobody had much control over their sleeping habits. Simon himself had an odd tendency to wake up in awkward positions all over his townhouse, once even with a spoon in his hand and an entire box of organic wheaties emptied into the toilet bowl, but then again, Simon was a _genius_.

Geniuses were _supposed _to be eccentric. And it wasn't like he'd eaten any of the unsanitary cereal . . . Although he'd always harbored a secret fear that he might have consumed some before he'd awoken. But, really, Simon tried not to think about that. Like, never.

But Grant Simmons was a genius by no stretch of the imagination, despite his concerningly accurate psychoanalysis of the team. In fact, Grant _still _fell for that old knee-slapper 'Gullible is written on the ceiling' trick. Simon utilized this once and a while, every time he thought a laugh was in order.

And so, really, Grant had no excuse for that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, not to mention _unsanitary _string of drool that was slowly inching its way down the hitman's stubbly, unshaved jaw.

Simon had used his feet to propel his wheely-chair into the farthest corner of the room, where'd he'd snapped on a medical mask and applied a healthy coat of scented hand sanitizer (honey-suckle, with a dash of vanilla), but precautions such as these could only last for so long.

Who _knew _what kind of Neanderthalic diseases that spit contained? Did idiots carry their own set of germs, unique to their kind? Were they contagious? More importantly, were they iQ-draining? Oh, this was bad. This was very, very, very, very, very, very, _very _bad.

Simon's hands were shaking. His skin was burning, just from being exposed to the unsanitary air. He was finding it hard to breathe. Perhaps the air was being incinerated by stupidity cooties!

Simon cheeks were burning from holding his breath for so long. The room was beginning to blur, whirling and twirling like the pretty merry-go-round at the annual carnival, the one that Simon had persisted on riding every year, despite its unwavering tendency to make him vomit.

The overhead lights had gone all fuzzy, like Van Gogh's Impressionistic sunflowers, the ones that Simon had always hated for lacking so much detail. How ugly. He'd have to get somebody to replace them-

Grant Simmons woke abruptly to a loud THUNK. He started, fell out of his chair, and gingerly got to his feet, tremulously thankful that O'Toole had left the room to go meet his cousin the doctor at their rendezvous point, and had not witnessed such an embarrassing stunt. As for Simon . . .

Dr. Simon the Psycho (which Grant had always considered a rather humorous alliteration, due to his woeful spelling skills) was on the unsanitary floor, mouth agog, with a medical mask on his face and a scented aura of honeysuckle surrounding him. Unconscious.

Grant stood still for a good five minutes, until a rare original thought made its sluggish way to his brain. Simon and O'Toole were down for the count. Things needed a bit of jazzing up . . .

Grant crept over to the file cabinets in the corner, wincing at the squeak of metal on metal as he opened the drawer, and beamed with what Simon would have begrudgingly deemed, if he were still conscious, an absolutely perfect evil grin.

There was an industrial-sized roll of duct tape in the supply cabinet.

…

Georgette was in the middle of a truly epic rendition of one of Whitney Houston's ballads as she pulled into the fittingly dark and mysterious alleyway where she had agreed to meet her darling banana muffin of a younger cousin. "AND I-I-I-I-I-I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOOOOOOU!"

Georgette had always thought herself a fairly decent singer. She had briefly even considered it as a career, but alas, she had had a higher calling - it involved money, prescription medicine, and the shady man whom she met on Friday nights at the diner, the one who always smelled like smoke and pepperoni pizza.

As she belted out the final notes, her headlights illuminated someone standing at the edge of the alleyway. Georgette squinted through the frames of her ultra-glittery fuscia glasses, confused.

Funny, she'd always remembered Adam to be a bit more masculine-looking . . .

Georgette climbed out of the car, settling her luggage-sized handbag on her shoulder and beaming at her decidedly effeminate relative, who had his arms crossed and eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Adam! You little winged cherubim, you! Come over here and give your Cousin Georgette a great big O'Toole hug, you little leprechaun, you! How've you been, Honey Bunches of Oats, huh? How's life been for you, how's life?"

Adam took a couple steps forward, and Georgette raised her eyebrows in bemusement. "You're a bit prettier than I remember, Adam, Old Boy. . . I mean . . . Girl?"

Adam was wearing a plaid, skimpy piece of fabric that Georgette supposed was masquerading as a skirt, along with a teeny black t-shirt emblazoned with a decidedly profane slogan, which was stretched across a full chest. A woman's chest.

"You . . . grew your hair out, did you, then?" Georgette ventured hesitantly. "And dyed it? Flatters your face. Though you were such a cute little blonde baby, that you were. Why, I would have killed to have hair as blonde as yours, I would've. My roots . . . My roots are a hot mess. A hot mess, I tell you."

Adam put a hand on his/her hip, which was decidedly _there. _The slim wrist was wrapped in lethally spiked bracelets. There was a tattoo blooming like a lacy, black rose on Adam's shapely neck.

"You look . . . you look good, that you do, Goody Gumdrops. The, uh, the surgery went off without complications, I see . . . Funny, I'd always thought it was Auntie Henry's side of the family with the, uh, gender-confused streak. But, uh, if you're happy, Rockin' Robin . . . Well, that's what counts. And I support you, that I do. I support you one-hundred-and-seventy-three percent. Yep, I do."

That was when Adam pulled the gun.

…

The whale-like woman standing in the obnoxious glare of the headlights didn't so much as flinch when Abby yanked the gun out from the shoulder holster she had stolen- er, _requisitioned_ from Tony's desk.

Abby rather liked the holster, actually, and was considering holding on to it after all this was over. With a couple pieces of black lace and a Bedazzler, it could be quite the fashion statement. But now wasn't the time to ponder fashion. Now was the time for action, legalities aside.

"No need to get sensitive, Adam, Cupcake. No need for that. I support you, that I do. Two-hundred-percent."

Abby blinked and thought frantically. Obviously this woman thought she was Adam O'Toole - the scumbag who currently lay in the trunk of Abby's hearse, bound hand and foot with zip ties - with a few . . . er, enhancements.

Abby wasn't at all sure how to take this, whether or not to be offended, but she saw opportunity. So she rolled with it.

"This is just precautionary, uh . . . cuz," she said finally, dropping her voice an octave or so. "You understand, of course."

The large, strange woman waved an obnoxiously-pink-manicured hand with a genial, irritating smile. "Not at all, not at all, Rubber Ducky. Go right ahead. Your voice sounds a bit odd," she continued conversationally as Abby awkwardly felt for weapons through several layers of flamboyantly-patterned clothing. "I suppose you feel emasculated, what with your lovely new feminine figure, and are overcompensating by imitating Clint Eastwood?"

Abby preened slightly at the compliment to her entirely genuine figure, thank you very much, and stepped back, satisfied that Georgette had nothing but folds of flab beneath her clothing. "Uh. Uh, yes," she ground out. "Please don't mention it. I'm terribly insecure."

Georgette's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, Bunny Rabbit. I had no idea. I won't mention it again, I won't."

"And, uh, I changed my name," Abby continued, thinking fast. She couldn't exactly parade in there and claim she was Adam O'Toole. An alias might allow her to masquerade as Georgette's assistant, if she played her cards right and was fast on her feet. "It's Midnight Krystal now. I thought it was more . . . " Here she spouted something in a language she did not know, which Ziva said on occasion after stubbing her toe. She waved a hand airily and tried to sound believable.

"Ooh . . . How positively thrilling, you dark angel, you! It's so . . . mysterious. Enigmatic. Dark. Midnight Krystal. I like it."

Abby blinked, flattered. "Really? You think so? I was going to name my firstborn child Midnight, and my next Krystal, but I decided - why wait?" This was, sadly, entirely true.

Georgette clapped a hand onto her 'cousin's' shoulder so forcibly that Abby's knees nearly buckled. "Absolutely, Sweet Potato Pie. Absolutely. Now let's get going, shall we?"

Abby smiled, crossed her fingers, and hoped to God that she would still have a job once Vance found out that her abrupt departure had nothing to do with the bathroom and a great deal to do with a spur-of-the-moment plan that was most definitely illegal.

If she hadn't been so scared, she'd be feeling pretty badass right about now . . .

**So . . . . Happy Single's Appreciation Day. (Initials being S.A.D. for a reason, I suppose) If you review, I'll give you a heart-shaped box of virtual chocolates, and also several boxes of those weirdly addictive chalk hearts that purport themselves to be candy. I'll be hooked on them by tomorrow night. **

**Also, Happy Episode 200. What did you guys think of it? Despite the weird amounts of Tate and the minimum Tiva, I kinda sorta loved the whole dang thing. Just the whole out-there concept made me absurdly happy. It was like a good fanfiction or something, seriously. But. Anyway. I also want to know what you thought of my humble little ficcy, if you could spare me a moment. **

**Thanks to everybody who presses the review button. You're all my valentines! If this darn website would let me make virtual hearts, I'd shower you with 'em right about now. So go pour some sprinkles on your head and pretend they're from me. Or, y'know, go get high on chocolate. Whatever floats your boat. Love y'all.**

**Peace! **


	28. Chapter 28

**Hey, I'm here, I'm alive, I'm relatively awake, and I'm proud of this chapter, dang it! I'm hoping to wrap this baby up by chapter 30, but I'm not very dependable when it comes to this stuff. So don't bet on anything. **

**Disclaimer - lolz no. Fangz (geddit?) 2 all da goffick peopl out dere who review. prepz can go die somewere smely**

Timothy McGee was good at solving puzzles.

As a little boy, he'd spent hours sprawled on the living room floor with the rug rolled back from the hardwood floor, little fingers carefully pressing colored cardboard pieces into their place.

McGee liked puzzles because they made sense. No matter how scrambled and dissonant the little scraps of colored images were, with patience they came together into an image that made _sense_.

It was the same way with computers, he discovered. As a slightly older boy, he'd spent hours curled up on the ratty leather of his desk chair, fingers beating out a rhythm on the worn keys of the keyboard.

Computers were complex and amazing, and he could take them apart with his fingers and build them back together, only _better_. He could take his fragmented images and build them into something that made sense, that opened doors into a world far, far away from his cramped little home on a military base.

McGee wasn't a little boy anymore, and there was no time to get comfortable, roll back the rug, and try to visualize his end product, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this monstrous maze was little more than a blank-faced puzzle.

The McGees had never been well-off, and so there hadn't been money to feed young Tim's endlessly hungry, inquisitive mind. He'd completed all his worn puzzles until he had the memories of their grooves and notches carved into his fingertips. It was too easy.

Eventually he'd began constructing the puzzles upside-down, with each image facing the floor. There were no colors and images to guide him, only his sensitive fingertips and the jagged cardboard pieces.

It had taken practice, but McGee had soon had the process down to an art. . . down to a _science_, rather, because there was nothing artsy about this. This was method and logic and it _made sense _ in a way that Timothy McGee craved.

And this was nothing different, was it?

"Boss, let me see the phone," McGee instructed, taking on a tone of authority that he never normally would have assumed, especially in front of Gibbs.

The blue-eyed agent blinked once, and his mouth quirked into something that was nearly a smile. He handed McGee the bedazzled phone and watched as the younger man began scrutinizing their captor's tattoo, comparing it to the ink scrawls that stretched like Abby's spider webs across McGee's palm, spilling onto his wrist.

As his agent stood mentally piecing his route together, Gibbs took a moment to check on his new 'friend,' the flamboyant young woman to whom the absurdly glittery phone belonged.

Emily Schneider (he thought that was her name) seemed alright, and her eyes fluttered open as Gibbs propped her up against the wet cement wall. "Ow," she said finally, and then fixed her eyes on Gibbs, glaring. "What the hell did you do to me? I thought we were, like, allies or something! Jerk!"

Gibbs jumped back just in time to avoid a blow to the gut. "Whoa. Calm down," he said quietly and firmly. "You stepped on a wire. The maze was rigged. You're okay."

Emily thought about this. "Oh."

"Boss!" McGee called suddenly, looking up from the phone. The sudden burst of excitement in his eyes made him look no more than ten years old. "Boss! I think I know where we are!"

"We're in a maze," offered Emily helpfully, getting shakily to her feet and tossing back her slightly static-y blonde curls.

McGee exchanged smirks with Gibbs and then got down to business. "Look. This is where you left me, Tony, and Ziva," he explained, gesturing to one of the many dark lines snaking its way through the tattoo in the photograph. "And then I went . . . this way. And here's where we are now."

Gibbs carefully scrutinized McGee's make-shift map, comparing it to Simon's. Finally he nodded. "Good job, Tim."

McGee's grin again reduced the man to little more than a round-faced boy, and Gibbs had to suppress the sudden rush of pride that swelled in his ribcage. "Now we just have to find Tony and Ziva and we can get the hell out of here."

…

Grant Simmons blinked and was promptly engulfed by a mass of colored fabric floating in a cloud of something toxic that smelled like a cross between a nuclear meltdown and a fruit salad. "Oof!" he managed, before his ribs buckled like toothpicks.

"The name's Doctor Georgette Lewis," beamed the monstrosity in the kitten-bedecked lab coat. "I'm Adam's cousin. I'm sure you've heard all about me!"

Grant thought fast. (Well, as fast as Grant ever thought.)

"Um. Yes. Yes, I have," he lied quickly, offering a hand. Doctor Lewis squeezed it so energetically that he was sure he'd dislocated one knuckle or another. "I'm, uh, Grant Simmons. I'm Doctor Simon's assistant. He, um, is busy running some tests. So I'm supervising right now."

Doctor Lewis nodded, accepting this, and began burrowing in her luggage-sized purse, muttering something about being sure she'd had some brownies in there somewhere, but Grant lost interest as he caught sight of the second woman who had entered with Doctor Lewis.

She was pale, dressed in a distractingly skimpy skirt, with dark pigtails perched on the crown of her head and sharp green eyes that were eyeing the duct-taped, blanket-covered lump in the corner that was Simon. She had an intelligent, inquisitive air in the way she cocked her head, but Grant was a bit more caught up in the girl's legs than her eyes.

"Hi," he said, approaching and offering a hand. "I'm Grant Simmons. You can call me Grant."

For a second the girl's eyes were wide with something like panic - she was probably intimidated by his incredible good looks - and then she pulled herself together enough to shake his outstretched hand. "I'm, um, Doctor Lewis' personal assistant," she said in a very quiet voice, "and her cousin. You can call me Krystal."

Grant grinned and would have responded, had Doctor Lewis not butted back in, triumphantly holding a Tupperware of brownies aloft. "Here we are! So why don't we all have a lovely snack while you fill me in on Doctor Simon's brilliant plan, why don't we!"

Krystal's eyes flew to the largest of Simon's many viewing screens, and her mouth dropped, no doubt awed by all the technology stuff that Simmons had no idea how to work. "Is that . . . Is that the team, then? The one you're . . . experimenting on?"

"Yep," Grant answered cheerfully, remembering his manners and pulling out a chair for Krystal with a courtly bow. "Take a seat. I was just about to spring a few surprises on them."

Georgette Lewis clapped appreciatively. "I do love surprises, " she beamed. "Don't you, Ad- Ahem. I mean, _Krystal_. Don't you, Chickadee?"

Krystal was blinking very rapidly as she sunk into the chair Grant had pulled out for her. "Oh. Oh, yes. I just- I just _love _them," she said finally, and dug her black-painted fingernails into the plush arm of the chair.

…

Simon tried to groan upon coming to, as he was fairly certain that was what people did in movies upon waking from a long period of unconsciousness, but he found his lips were being inhibited by something . . . sticky . . . and silver . . . and . . . _Dear Lord in Heaven, was that DUCT TAPE? _

Upon further exploration, which involved squirming his lips around and wriggling his toes and fingers, Simon found himself to be tightly bound in none other than sticky silver tape.

The shock was nearly enough to cause him to pass out all over again, but Simon was made of firmer stuff than that. He had to escape for the sake of his experiment! Now wasn't the time to turn into a namby-pamby who dropped dead at the slightest hint of danger!

He attempted to squirm, and failed miserably, so he sensibly decided to lay still and rely on the considerably strength of his mind, as opposed to the lesser strength of his nonexistent muscles.

It wasn't until his eyes adjusted to the oddly thick darkness that he realized he was wrapped in a checkered flannel blanket . . . _on the floor_.

The floor was _dirty_. The floor was covered in germs. _And Simon's cheek was pressed up against the cold linoleum surface!_

The blanket he recognized as Grant's. He had been swaddled in the plaid flannel earlier, asleep.

Grant Simmons drooled in his sleep.

He'd been sleeping under this blanket.

Consequently, _HE HAD BEEN DROOLING ON THIS BLANKET! _

Simon attempted to moan and passed out once more.

…

Leigh Ann Marcy had always known Abigail Sciuto was an odd duck. After all, the women dressed like a cross between a zombie and a prostitute, blasted atrocious music, and hugged everybody.

She had known the girl was a loose cannon from the first time she entered the lab with a baggy of evidence and a great deal of interest, curious to see why her teammates always looked a bit disheveled and hard of hearing after a visit with the Forensics Analyst.

First she'd heard the music. Then she'd smelled incense, which apparently was being burnt to eliminate 'bad juju' left in the lab by a particularly offensive piece of weaponry. Then she'd been attacked by a dark-haired, pig-tailed whirlwind in spiked jewelry.

"Hi! You're Leigh Ann! Welcome to my lab! I'll admit I was a little suspicious, but I went through your repertoire and I read your letters of recommendation and I talked to your commanding officers from when you were in the Navy, and you're on the up and up! Congratulations! So I'll just take your fingerprints and a blood sample to ensure you're not just a Leigh Ann Marcy doppelganger, though I doubt it 'coz I don't think _anybody _could replicate your hair situation . . . Is your hair normally that static-y or is it just the weather? Anyway, come on in, I'll prick your finger and take a blood sample and then we can get acquainted, m'kay?"

Leigh Ann had stammered something about the bathroom, flung the evidence bag towards the Gothic scientist, and run for her freaking _life_.

So, no, she couldn't say she was surprised when Director Vance called her, sounding as flustered as the man ever had, and informed her that they had 'a situation.'

Abigail Sciuto had made off with several weapons from ballistics and a canister of pepper spray, presumably on some crazy-ass vigilante mission in an attempt to rescue her favorite team. And now Leigh Ann didn't even get the pleasure of kicking down a couple of doors and storming the warehouse to relieve her sleep-deprivation-induced aggression.

No, now she had to stand in a line-up of cop cars with a megaphone and a cup of coffee, waiting for Director Vance to decide what the heck they were going to do. They had found Sciuto's car . . . Excuse me, her _hearse_, which was equipped with a freaking _body_.

They'd identified the unconscious man as Adam O'Toole, Simon's known associate. Leigh Ann had sent him back to the Navy yard with a couple of her men to be interrogated. She guessed Vance was hoping O'Toole would say something helpful, which would somehow solve this screwed up situation.

For now, she was just going to have to settle with drinking another cup of coffee.

**So I know I don't update this enough, and I'm sorry. But I'm happy with this chapter, and I hope you guys all liked it. I'm going to try to update again pretty soon, because I know where I'm going with this bad boy, and I want to wrap it up. Love, as always, to every one of you who reviews - I get absurdly happy every time I see a review alert in my inbox. **

**Let's keep me happy, yes? Review or I'll unleash an army of Enoby Mary Sues on you. (Yeah, I just read the infamous My Immortal. And my brain kinda drank some Lye and killed itself. So.)**

**Thanks, guys! ~Styx**


	29. Chapter 29

**It's almost overrrrr! One more chapter and my first ever multi-chapter fic will be COMPLETE, BABY! Woooo! Hopefully you like how I resolved things. If not, please let me know! :) **

**Thanks to every single freaking one of you who's made my day by taking a minute to drop me a line. Seriously, you guys inspire me to write better every single day, not to be cliche or anything, and I never would have completed this thing without you. So, like, love. And pineapple-scented lotion and stuff.  
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**Disclaimer: Way to stick a pin in my balloon, man...  
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Simon came to once more with a start and a particularly painful muscle spasm, which was constricted by his sticky silver bonds, in the midst of a truly alarming dream about being chased through a decidedly unhygienic sewer system by a host of rabid hamsters, who apparently harbored a grudge towards him over the demise of a couple of their species-members for the sake of science.

It had been a truly terrifying dream, but it seemed to Dr. Simon that right now the actual present tense was fast becoming all the more scary.

Trying very decidedly to ignore the fact that he was cloaked in a drool-covered blanket, Simon attempted to perform a series of calming breathing exercises whilst pondering his next move.

He could hear Grant talking - the man's irritating voice was unmistakable - as well as the high-pitched, painfully repetitive conversation that could belong to no one other than Georgette Lewis. There was someone else in the room as well, who would occasionally interject with a slightly shell-shocked 'mm-hmm,' who Simon did not recognize. Perhaps it was one of Grant's notorious cronies, a walking Neanderthal with a neck thicker, even, than the man's head. Simon did not want to incur the attentions of such a being, that was for certain.

Instead, Simon focused his own attention on an uncomfortable something in the pocket of his lab coat, which was digging into his hip bone painfully. _His mobile cellular device! _

The only problem was that his long-fingered hands were tightly swathed in layers of duct tape, and he had no other means of access to his cell phone. Perhaps if he wriggled enough to remove his lab coat, he'd be able to grasp at the pocket with his exposed fingertips . . . or perhaps he could remove one of his shoes and then utilize his remarkably adept toes . . . But, no, there was no telling what kind of fungi lay in wait on these unsanitary floors . . . And Simon wasn't quite so desperate as to risk contracting athlete's foot for the sake of freeing himself!

Simon decided that the only option he had was to wait until his captors were sufficiently distracted, then set about using his fingertips to reach for his mobile phone. Until then, he would gather his strength, perhaps meditate to restore his mental balance, and eavesdrop on the conversation going on around him.

"-chainsaws," he heard that insufferable Grant Simmons say in an eager, perhaps slightly flirtatious, tone of voice. "What do you think, Midnight Krystal? Want to spice things up a bit?"

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Oh. Oh, _no_. No, I'm- I'm _terribly _afraid of blood, I don't think I could stomach something like that. Um, how about we just let them wander for a little while . . . and laugh cruelly as they struggle?"

"You're such a softy, you are, Monkey-Face," crooned Dr. Lewis, through what sounded like a mouthful of crumbs. Simon winced, nauseated just imagining the mess that the disgusting woman must be making.

"Where's the fun in that?" Grant sounded disgusted.

"It's like . . . watching ants wander around acting really stupid," explained the girl whose voice Simon could not place, though it tickled at the back of his mind like maybe he should be able to, anxiously. "And look how close they are to succeeding. Maybe we could let them almost reach the exit, and then tear it away from them. And laugh. At, like, their pain and stuff?"

"You devious thing, you! I didn't know you had it in you, E-Z Bake!" Lewis threw in admiringly.

"No chainsaws?"

"Psychological pain is much more potent," cooed the irritatingly-familiar voice, almost flirtatiously, though Simon sensed a bit of anxiety lurking beneath the honeyed tone. "And then after we analyze their reactions, you can totally take a blowtorch to them, Grant . . . baby," added the girl uncertainly.

Simon could practically see Grant's disgusting, self-satisfied smirk. No doubt the hitman was leering lewdly, probably feeling up the girl with about as much subtlety as a wooly mammoth at the same time.

"Well, I guess I could find something else to distract myself until then," purred the Neanderthal suggestively.

'Midnight-Krystal' giggled, the noise slightly high-pitched and hysterical, though Simon doubted the others would note the slight fear. He, after all, was the psychological genius. Grant Simmons had been hired for his muscle, not his brain.

"Why don't we take this outside," she offered. There was a creaking, as if someone had stood up from their seat eagerly. "Let me just grab my purse, and I'll meet you outside, okay?"

"Don't take too long."

Another fearful giggle, and then the door opened and closed loudly.

"Adam, I didn't know you-"

"It's Midnight-Krystal . . . cuz," snapped the girl. "Don't call me Adam. I'm a girl now, remember?"

Simon blinked.

Wait.

_What? _

Adam certainly had his quirks, but femininity was most definitely _not _one of them, and Simon suddenly had a terrifying realization.

The voice, slightly scratchy and lowly feminine! He knew who it belonged to - the fair, dark-haired forensic scientist whom Simon had briefly tailed in the hopes of acquiring another guinea pig. He had soon abandoned the practice, because there was no way _in hell _that Simon was going to set one foot in a grungy tattoo parlor!

But, now - that was her! The dark-haired, tattooed scientist was in _his lab_, flirting with his captor, cheerfully and easily persuading Georgette Lewis into leaving her alone in the control center!

"I don't think I understand, Raisinette . . . I thought you and Grant were rendezvousing outside, why do you want me to leave . . . ?"

"To play a trick on Grant," said the girl . . . Abby! That was her name - Abigail! "Won't that be funny, cuz, to trick Grant like that?"

"I . . . suppose so, Cheshire Cat," answered Doctor Lewis, giggling uncertainly. "Are you sure you . . . "

"_Yes_!" snapped Abigail forcibly. There were stumbling footsteps, like she was pushing the heavier woman towards the doorway. "I'll come in a minute and then we'll all laugh about it, okay?"

The door slammed shut in the midst of Georgette Lewis' protests, and then there was a scraping as all five locks and deadbolts were fitted into place. Then there was a massive sigh of relief and hurrying footsteps.

The blanket of drool and darkness was suddenly flung back, and Simon was looking into the fierce green eyes of one very angry Abigail Sciuto.

…

"You're really bleeding a lot," said Tony mildly, doing a very admirable job of not sounding worried. "Do you want to sit for a second and-"

"No."

"No?"

"No," Ziva repeated decidedly. "I am fine. It is just a little blood. And it's slowing already. I can tell."

"Liar."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Tony completed the façade of maturity by sticking out his tongue. Ziva wrinkled her nose at him and kept walking. "We can rest once we have found McGee and Gibbs."

"We're never gonna find them if you pass out from blood loss before we reach them," he countered, stubbornly stopping in his tracks.

"We will never find them if you continue to slow our progress like this." Ziva crossed her arms and met his gaze just as firmly.

There was no telling how long the impromptu staring contest might have lasted, had a crackle overhead not interrupted the heated match. Someone cleared their throat, and then an achingly familiar voice chirped, "We interrupt your everyday scheduled programming to bring you this important message - Abigail Sciuto has officially kicked ass!"

…

McGee, Gibbs, and Schneider stood in their tracks, entirely stunned as the chaos being broadcasted continued. There was a noise of protest over the loudspeakers, and then Abby laughed mockingly.

"Aww, does my potty mouth huwt youw pwecious wittle eaws, poow baby Simon? Too freaking bad, pal . . . "

There was a faint shout somewhere in the distance, then Abby said, "Ow! Geez, Tony, you don't need to yell! You have, like, microphones on you - just talk normally and I'll hear you. God, I think you just made my eardrums commit suicide . . . "

"Abby," McGee said, finally regaining use of his vocal chords, "Abs, I need you to turn off the electric circuits and the moving walls. Can you-"

"Way ahead of you, McGee," Abby interrupted smugly. "Okay. I've got darling Mr. Simon Wiggins here and he's going to ever so kindly direct you to the exit. You were really close, Tim, so don't feel bad. First, I'm going to get Tony and Ziva caught up with you guys, okay? And by the way, Gibbs, Ziva's bleeding a lot even if she doesn't want to admit it, so you should probably refrain from headslapping her, okay?" A moment of silence, them, "Oh, and Tony's concussed. So don't hit him either."

"Got it, Abs," Gibbs responded, smiling slightly. "Now tell us how to get the hell out of here."

**Well? Please, please, please review. I know I'm begging, but I'm kind of insecure about this chapter in particular, and GAH I DON'T KNOW... So, please? Just tell me if it's bad or not. Thanks, you guys! **


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